


Dusk Territories: Always Burning

by Sgt_Rypht



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Magic, Mutants, Novel, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Apocalyptic, Ruins, original - Freeform, powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-04-07 19:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4275555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sgt_Rypht/pseuds/Sgt_Rypht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Graham walked out into the world and found that the sky was red. He wished that it stopped there. In this new twisted apocalypse, powerful men and women emerged from the shadows with new found powers to carve up the United States for themselves. Behind the cannibals, the mutants, and the new power wielding psychopaths lies the truth behind the cataclysm. If…only anyone could remember. </p>
<p>Find out the truth behind all the webs in this action packed, post-apocalyptic fantasy trilogy where the world can’t be saved, but avenged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Long Way from Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David Graham wakes up in a world that's not his in a condition he couldn't have started to understand.

**1**

* * *

 

_“Long Way from Home”_

_“Listen, son. It’s a long way from what you called “home”. No one can claim that word anymore.”_

* * *

 

Cold, that’s the word that described his entire body. It was a frigid, unforgiving feeling that settled in his gut, his lungs, his heart, even his sluggish thoughts. Everything felt frozen, and he was the center. He, David Graham, was at the core of all darkness. Did he know how he got there? No. But, somehow and unknowingly, he made it into the maws of devils and lived.

            He opened his eyes. There were only shades around him. Thin blades of light showered in from the cracks in what Graham assumed to be the roof.  He tried to follow the illuminations with his eyes, hoping that it would give him some insight. _No. Nothing_ , he thought, gritting his teeth. All he could see was shapeless forms and deeper shadows the further he looked through the ruins. As much as he tried to keep calm, nothing was making sense. His mind fumbled through his thoughts messily. _Where am I?_

Panic was an enemy, he knew. The moment that a person moved in fear was the instant they died.  So, he had to act. To answer any question, he had to move.

            The first few seconds were the toughest. He tried to move freely, but his legs were pinned down. Graham squirmed underneath what he assumed was concrete rubble. His limbs oddly held no pain, nor did he truly feel them at all. He lied there motionless, thinking to scream for help. But, a part of him knew that he was alone. There was no need to scream for help that would never come.  It was just a waste of energy. His training as a Marine taught him to conserve your energy, harness it, and keep calm. _Take one step at a time, Corporal. You made it this far doing just that_. 

            Before long, he was taking large strides to move his body. The more that he moved, the stiffer his entire body felt.  Every bone in his body cracked and churned as though they needed to be oiled. Graham tried hard to ignore it, even make use of it.  The stiffness in his body allowed some painless movement. Majority of his body didn’t register the obvious damage.  He could only describe the feeling as if he was put under some powerful numbing medicine. _Get yourself together, David,_ he urged himself.

 Graham started with the smaller pieces first, building his way to the larger slabs. His fingers dug into the cracks, lifting the debris to peel layer after layer. He had to be careful. One false move could send the entire mountain of rocks into a landslide. It was a miracle that he was still alive; it would be a shame if he killed himself on the act of self-rescue. Piece by piece, he exposed more and more of his body. Hip, thighs, knees, shin, and finally his feet were free. He dragged himself out; using the strength of his upper body in fear his legs might be paralyzed.

 Oddly, they weren’t.

            Sitting in the dark, he felt his legs move. Felt may have not been the correct word. Hell. He didn’t feel anything fully at this point. But he saw them move on his accord; even sensed an odd reception of feeling…but not quite. His head ached as he tried to process that, to no avail. 

            Instead, he sprawled himself against the floor, breathing for the first time in what felt like ages. The very air tasted stale, reeking of years of rot and blood. Graham let his mind wander free, trying to recall anything that came to mind. His name was Corporal David Bryan Graham of the United States Marine Corp. Good. He remembered his name and what he did. He was stationed at Camp Lejeune, not even a week after he just returned from his deployment overseas in the Middle East. That he knew for certain. Before or after that was a blur. He didn’t know the reason he was there nor what had happened to get him in this predicament.

  But, he could assume that he was still _at_ the North Carolina Marine Base or…what’s left of it. With that thought, he took in his surroundings again. This time, he gave a little more leeway than when he first woke up. His sight had adjusted to the darkness. From what he could see, he was in the armory. The southern portion of it, however, had been buried underneath rubble that faced him. He could still see the gun racks lined up on the side of the east, lockers on the west. A table sat behind him, lying in such a way to provide makeshift cover. “A firefight,” he said, aloud. There was no other way to interpret that. Somehow, a fight had started in the base.

Curiosity now eclipsed his better judgment. He had to know why. But first, he had to find out whether or not he could walk.  Starting slow, Graham pulled himself up, using the table’s top as leverage. He heard an odd crack in his legs as he stood on them. Standing, it felt as though he had no bodyweight at all. Maybe, he had been out for days…maybe a month in some odd twist of fate. That would explain how his body withered, but maybe not how it survived. He shook the thought away.

He took baby steps, as he walked around the table. At first, he kept his eyes on the ground. The tilted floor was cracked, covered in dust. Moss and weeds crept through the crevices, almost the length of his shin. Despite pushing the thoughts away, he knew that this wasn’t something that happened over a few days or a month. Graham knew he was out a long time.

            Caught in his own thoughts, his worn-out combat boot tapped against an object. It startled him, like any other man. He looked to his left, where his boot still sat against the entity.  “Fuck,” he shouted. It was a human head, mouth agape and filled to the brim with maggots. It still had decayed flesh on it, but a large portion was torn near the top, exposing the skull. Dark black hair, closely cropped to his crown was still intact, but covered in long, pink worms and thousands of maggots. Eyes—still surprisingly in their sockets—were lulled to the back of his head, only whites visible. Graham choked. He recognized the man, despite his uniform being reduced to mostly dust.  

“Phillip…” Graham had known him as Private Phillip Kingsley, good kid, only nineteen. Kingsley was a member of his unit, and now dead.   _Something’s wrong with this…something I can’t…_

            Completely frazzled, for the first time, his eyes searched the room wildly. There were more, bodies everywhere—bodies that he recognized. Andres, Hacke, Johnson, Bakes, Calder, Tabin, and Yamashiro lied in horrible positions, staring lifelessly at their Corporal with empty sockets. Fear gripped him, standing up in horror. He took a hard swallow as he stepped back. His entire unit, dead. His body froze. “What the hell is going on?” Graham said in a single breath. His mind raced through thoughts. What happened? Why was he alive? What was going on?

            The Marine stood in anger and fear, fist clinched and mind confused. He ran his fingers through his hair.

            If he didn’t know then, he knew now. Something went to hell.

            He kept still, trying to gather his mind like any soldier that was surrounded by fallen comrades. He had to push on. It was a grim thought, one that no one wanted to cross their mind. But, he had to. He had to survive; even when his mind muddled and his heart….

            Wait.

He pressed his palm against his heart. There was little to no heartbeat. Adrenaline and fear should have been rushing through his veins, not only his mind. Nothing, it was like…no that wasn’t possible. Graham shook his head violently, hoping that this was some horrid dream and he was in the barracks. He wasn’t met with the luxury of waking up snuggly in his bunk. He banged his knuckles against his forehead in an ill attempt to reach his normal military tranquility, the stoniness that helped him lead fights. “David,” he told himself, now somewhat conscious of the gravel in his voice, “You need to get out here.  You need to move.”

            A gun, he would be safer and more himself with a gun. Instinctively, he hobbled towards for the weapon racks he spotted earlier. He tore the M16A2 from the wall, clipping a black strap to it for easier transportation later. In normal battle conditions, he would have preferred the M249 SAW in his grip. Right now, complaints and partialities were the least of his worries. The weapon was light, effective, and strong. Besides, in his current state of mind, he probably couldn’t handle anything more without drastically reducing his marksmanship.  

            Firmly holding the rifle in one hand, he continued to the lockers. These were usually were they kept the magazines and ammo, sometimes even grenades. Graham tugged at the first cache’s lock, but it wouldn’t budge. The rust from the hinges was coating it as though it was preparing the metal underneath for winter. The second however, moved a little easier. He grabbed his gun with both hands, slamming the butt into it. It shattered into two large fragments. He sighed. At least one thing was going _right_ , if he could use that word loosely.

            He swung the door open, revealing several lines of mags and even a few grenades. He stuffed as many into his camouflage pants as he could without being over encumbered. Lightness was movement, movement kept men alive. He helped himself to three grenades, placing them in a holster, and then around his waist. He wasn’t going to use them here, too risky.  When things got hairy—from the looks of things, it might—he would have something to equalize this insanity.

            A satisfying click resounded in the air as he loaded a mag from the shelf into his gun.

            “Time to get out of this hell-hole,” Graham said gruffly.

            He inhaled. He understood why the room stank of death. It _was_ death. With a weary glance, he looked over his shoulder to see his dead comrades, his dead friends. “Damn it…”

            With that he headed towards the first exit that he saw, dimly shimmering by the blades of lights on the reflective red sign. He touched the blue door’s handle, pressing it down. Maybe there were answers in here, maybe he would die out there. _Can’t chicken out now,_ he supposed.   

            The corridor that he entered into was seemingly the main hall. Memory of the schematics of the place was pretty dim in his head. If he was lucky, he could find a map. If he was unlucky, Graham could be wandering for quite a lot of time in these empty halls. Luck hadn’t been quite the lady lately, so he hated his odds. He just needed to find a way out. By the looks of it though, half of the building was collapsed.

            He grunted, looking at his surroundings with keen eyes. He couldn’t go west. That hallway was long gone, just a tower of broken debris that was primed to collapse. North from him was another blue door. It was probably to another armory. He played with the idea of going into that one and seeing what he could find. A part of him felt like he needed a tac vest, smokes, or even a flash. Ultimately though, he decided against it. It would only slow him down. So east it was.

            M16A2 firmly in two hands now, Graham continued onward. The corridor was lit a bit better than the weapon’s chamber.  Reddish light filtered through thin fissures on the walls. Some of the glow shimmered in the distance, perhaps a product of a window of some sort. He grumbled. Those windows were mostly bullet proof or reinforced at best. Escaping through there would be difficult and time consuming. The occasional showers of dirt from the ceiling meant that he didn’t have the time. Or that the building was running out of patience.

            So, he had to do whatever he had to do quickly.

            He forced himself into a jog, before easing himself into a full out sprint. _My legs are going to fail me,_ he thought. They should’ve. The fact that he was standing was a miracle. But, they withstood the long corridor. The path was longer than he remembered with countless doors, endless tiles, and grey walls. Every so often he would look to a wall, craving for a directory. It wasn’t until a few minutes in that he found one that was remarkably intact, despite dried blood on its glass frame.  

            Grimly, he wiped the blood using his forearm until the surface was clean. Brown chips sprinkled to the floor, residue of the liquid. Before long, he was staring at the light blue map behind a scratched plane of glass. Yet the victory was premature with the soon defeat of meeting himself in the glass for the first time. “Oh shit!” He danced back, horrified. 

            What looked back at him was a twisted visage of his reflection. Lifeless white eyes stared back, socket sunken deep into his skull. His skin, once tan and covered in sunburns, was now slightly purple and peeling off of his body. The black hair left on his head was still cropped somewhat neatly, but appeared wild in this new condition. Parts of his jaw were torn off, revealing throbbing muscles that leaked blood painlessly.  His teeth were decayed and yellow, even a few missing in the back.

            He was dead! Graham shook his head madly. “Shit, shit, shit,” he repeated to himself. That was him in the reflection. Alive, but some sort of undead. And how that hell did that happen?

            All attempts to be cool-headed left him. He slumped himself against the wall, wide-eyed. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of his hand. They were in the same condition, decayed, even a bone poking out of his index. Foolish judgment tempted him to roll up his pants legs. They were in far worse condition, basically stripped to the bone—knee caps to fibula. No wonder he felt no pain from them earlier…even if they were remarkably intact.

            The corporal bit his lower lip, curling his knees to his chest. “This is mess up.” He had to think.

            This was bad. He knew that. Nothing could have ever gotten him through this. His memories were jammed. All the people he knew were probably dead.  He had no clue what was going on outside. His body was dead, but his mind and spirit moved it ever the same.

            _Maybe I should just off myself. Just get it over with._

            He touched the barrel of his rifle. He could end it, a rain of bullet into his gullet or the head. But, would it be enough? Would he just live on like some monster and lose his freewill in the process? No. He couldn’t do it. His pride wouldn’t allow him; his honor would want him to fight. Whatever was happening, it wouldn’t take him. Not like this.

            Cursing his moment of weakness, Graham stood up. Yes. Any man would have reacted like that, but few would have decided against it. He was still breathing—though he wasn’t sure if it was a necessity anymore. It’s better than being dead, completely dead. He needed to get himself together; the base won’t be forgiving for long.

            Pacing back to the map, trying his best to ignore the reflection, he glared at the map. He traced his finger against the glass, mapping out the area slowly in his brain. There was an escape, not too far from him. Maybe if he hadn’t freaked out, rightfully as it was to do so, he would have been out of here by now.  “Alright,” Graham said swallowing hard. _Do I really sound like my voice have gone through a grinder_?He ignored the free floating thought. “The next fork I meet, take a right. Then keep going, until I see another left. If that’s blocked…I’ll make it back here.”

            Plan stitched in his brain, he continued onward. Of course, the negative thoughts still lingered as well. He hadn’t removed himself of them, but placed them on a top shelf out of his reach. But like a child going for a jar of cookies, his mental fingers still grazed the thought once and a while. It made running through a dark corridor, that may be filled with hostile, that much worse.  
            Alternatively, he tried to focus. In a faded memory, Graham had remembered a teaching. Ken Yamashiro, the sniper in David’s group, had called it “Mushin”. Mushin was the focus, the flow, in or out of combat that allowed you to free yourself of thoughts. Anger, fear, ego…all could be gone if you centered yourself long enough. Before, it may have been instinctive to Graham. Now, it was a struggle.

            But he slowly made it work. No longer did he focus on his conflicting thoughts or his condition. The surroundings became clearer, almost pristine. He felt the air around his body as he ran. His lungs didn’t burn, feet didn’t tire. He just ran, ran as fast as he could. It was liberating, releasing those venomous thoughts. Only focus. That’s what he needed.

            His mind continually flashed the map in his head; he could remember landmarks from it. The janitor closet was going to be to his left. A few clicks more, he saw it. A utility room was going to be to his right. And again, he was met with such. “A few more and you will be seeing the first right.” With an abrupt stop, he met the fork in the road. “Right,” he told himself, and pivoted his body for the new change in direction.

            This hallway was a bit different, wider than the previous one. There had been a large set of double doors that separated the two. However, he soon found himself jumping over those. They were torn clean off their hinges. He looked back, concerned. “What did that?” Ultimately, he decided that he did NOT want to deal with whatever did that. “Focus, David,” he growled.

            He wheeled around the next corner, hastily. The next left would be to the nearest exit, and then…

            What was that?

            Graham slowed himself to a jog, then to a stride, and finally to a halt. He lowered himself down, eyes peering in the darkness. There were shadows, human shaped ones painted against the concrete walls near the exit. If it wasn’t for the light—or rather that his eyes could see better in the dark now—he wouldn’t have saw it. _They could be hostiles_.He pulled the automatic rifle from his back. If so, he would have to be ready.

            He held his breath.

            _Huh,_ he thought, _I don’t need to actually breathe._ Being a human being for…well all of his life, it was a habit. But whatever this was didn’t need air. Or at least, minimums amount of it. That scared him. But, oddly it invigorated him as well.  At least it would get him through a battle if he needed to. He clutched the black, metal gun in his hands. Training told him to keep crouching and walk slowly. Caution. This needed caution.

            The corner of the last left hand turn near the exit had given him ample cover. Graham knew whatever was in the hallway probably couldn’t see him. His eyes wandered, peeking around the bend. He kept the gun near his chest. It wasn’t wise to make decisions with his trigger finger rather than his mind. So, he waited and listened, keeping true to his better discipline. Chatter soon drifted in the building   

            “Do you think that we will find anythin’ here? I mean, places like these are dangerous in these times,” the first voice, a deep male said.

            “I’m not sure, but Drifter asked us to check the surroundings. It seems clear for the most part,” a woman answered. She paused for a second. “Do you really think it is wise for us to go anywhere near this base? There could be something—well anything really—in here that could probably kill us before we had the chance. Just look at the place.”

            The man seemed to have no answer. He lit a cigarette in response, its glow lighting up the shadows. “I don’t know. The crazy old coot always seems to be right, even though…” The man trailed off. “I’m not even sure if he’s awake half of the time, you know.”

            “Never stopped him from killin’ men,” the woman responded. She grabbed the cigarette from the man’s fingers, and put it to her mouth instead. From his shadow, he had nothing more than a shrug as a response, lighting another.

            “He wouldn’t have sent the great Crisium to accompany me on a weapon run.” The man looked to her. She blew smoke in his face. “He wouldn’t have sent one of his best mutants for this job,” he said, swatting the smoke away.

            Crisium laughed. “At least he didn’t send Wood with you, Tyrus.”

            “Hell if I would have went if he had,” Tyrus grumbled.

            “Scared, Ty?”

            “Don’t act like he doesn’t freak you out too, Cris.  A man isn’t supposed to be that skin—“

            Crisium stopped his ramble with a flick of her hand. She took another drag of the small cigarette, stepping forward. For the first time, Graham saw her eyes. They shone yellow in the darkness, like reflecting light some sort of animal. Her movements were smooth and instinctive. She put one foot in front of the other, moving in a rhythm that mimicked even the most graceful beast. She smiled, throwing the cigarette to the ground. “I saw something.”

            Graham gritted his teeth. _No way._

The young woman, white as snow, continued forward. Her dark hair tumbled down her back, fanning out around her waist. She was unarmed, but looked dangerous. She pressed her fingers against her lips, tongue dancing behind it. The smile never left, instead it intensified the closer she got to the corner. Graham knew then, somehow and someway, she had seen him. He clicked off the safety, preparing for a battle.  

            “What did you see, Cris!” Tyrus called out. She ignored him.

            Graham knew then that he had to act, and had to act _now_. All it took was one spray. Bullets could end the battle before it even started.  He wheeled around the corner, and fired.

            The automatic rifle sputtered several rounds, sparks flying from the muzzle. They soared towards the woman in incredible speeds, tearing through darkness and concrete alike. Somehow, she managed to react in time, dancing away with some inhuman reaction time. She kept behind a stone pillar, giving a bit of a snarl.  “What do we have here?” she cried out. “Another bandit? Another lost soul.” Crisium tipped her head from the side of the pillar, receiving another impulsive shower of metal. Again, she barely avoided the bullets, her black hair grazed by them. “What’s your name, hun? Can ya speak?”

            Graham growled in turn. “Corporal David Graham, and I’m far from the bandits here.”

            “Corporal, like Marine Corporal…” He could tell that she was oddly amused by this junction. “Name’s Marie Lache, but you can call me, Crisium, honey. Everyone does. How long have ya been held up here?”

            “Cris! He has probably been here ever since the world lost it. Just off him!” Tyrus shouted from the entrance.

            “No, no! That would be a waste of talent.” Crisium walked around the corner, hands up. Her thick soled boots echoed in the air. “David, was it? I’m not here to fight. This is only a means of survival, nowadays. You should know that.”

            “What do you mean by, ‘I should know that?’”

            “How else would you have survived, sweetie?”

            “What the hell are you talking about?” Graham turned himself completely around the corner now, gun poised at the woman approaching him.

            She stopped her approach, shocked. The look in her eyes flickered from amusement to confusion. Crisium cocked her head to the side, much like a canine. “What are you?” Her voice whispered those words twice after she had said it aloud. “What—“she crossed her arms, fairly unaware of the barrel pointed at her. “You’re a new one.” She looked over her shoulder. “Ty! You have to come see this man! He—“She struggled with the words. “He’s…he’s some undead mutant.” She cocked her eyebrow.

            Tyrus, a larger dark skinned man, shuffled ahead. In his hand was a pump action shotgun, most likely a Spas model. He pointed it towards Graham as well, beads of sweat dancing and dripping from his dreadlocked head. His brown eyes widened much the same way that Crisium’s did, probably even larger. “What the—“ Tyrus pumped the shotgun. Graham pointed his gun as a response.

            “No fightin’,” Crisium said. She narrowed her eyes, almost closing them. “What are you, Graham?”

            “Hell if I know, I just woke up like this…” Graham, cornered and a little angry despite his calm demeanor, waved the gun between the two targets. “I have _no clue_ what is going on.”

            “We don’t either,” Crisium admitted.  “But, you seem…” she pressed her hand against Graham’s gun, “in the right mind for the most part.”

            Tyrus gave a raised eyebrow. “Well, he hasn’t shot us yet.”

            “Ty. I’m thinking…the Drifter might wanna see this.”

            Graham held his gun harder, despite Crisium pressing down her weight on it. “I can’t trust you. My men are dead. This base is gone, and you expect…”

            “I don’t expect anythin’,” Crisium interrupted. “What I am askin’ is do you want to come back with us for you can find out what’s goin’ on?”

             Silence crept into the conversation. Tyrus snuck panicked glances at Crisium. Crisium didn’t return them. Instead, she kept her eyes on the ghoul of a Marine standing in front of her. She smiled. “You get outta here and on your way without no bloodshed, and we won’t have to deal with a zombie with military training. Sounds like a win-win to me.”

            Graham lowered his gun. She had a point, the less bloodshed, the better in a situation like this. For now, they seemed to be trust worthy.

Tyrus must have made the same decision. He lowered his gun in turn.  

            “Alright, I just want to get out of here,” Graham said, exhaling.

            “How ‘bout this? You seemed to have a gun, ammo, and some equipment,” Crisium said, as she quickly took in how armed Graham was. “You tell us where you got those and you get out of here. If you stay just outside here, we will take you to our boss.  Or you can just bail and pretend we never saw each other.” She put her hands up in a light hearted gesture.

            “If I don’t…” Graham said.

            “Then, things might get a bit bloody right now.”

            Graham thought about it. In one hand, these people were probably bandits, looting dead corpses and an equally dead military base. But on the other hand, a bloody fight with them after they had been rather cordial would be underhanded and low. He sighed. From the looks of it and the way they talked, they seemed to have a right to scavenge. He sighed. “Alright, I’ll go as long as you don’t shoot me in the back.”

            “Tyrus don’t shoot him in the back,” Crisium ordered, grinning.

            “Woman,” Tyrus said in a protest, but stopped.

            “Just tell us where the goods are, if ya please.”

            From memory and honor, Graham told them the locations of the armories. Surprisingly, he could give almost every landmark he saw. At the end, he added: “be careful, the place is about to fall apart and you probably don’t have much time to get everything. Get what you can in one trip.” 

            Crisium nodded. “That’s a pretty good insight from a person that shot at me. Trust-worthy man. Honor is…low these days.” She looked over to Tyrus. “Better get going, Ty.”  The dark man nodded, his eyes still weary on Graham.  “Stop staring. It’s not nice,” she added, punching him on the shoulder. “We have seen much worse.”

            Wordlessly, the two continued down where Graham instructed, leaving him alone in the dark corridor.

            The only thing left was to leave. The exit was right in front of him. Even from here, he could see the broken glass and metal door pouring in red light from the outside. He took steps towards it in a slow, hypnotic fashion. The way they spoke made him feel like he had missed something. That something was world-changing. Murder seemed like the normal to them. Talk of mutants and madmen. Even his body had been affected. What was out there?

            The closer Graham got to the door, it all started to settle in.  He knew what he would find on the other side. No matter how slow he walked. No matter how he tried to believe something different. When he finally touched the cold metal door, bathed in the burnt scarlet sunlight, it all came together. He pushed it open, the sound of the metal grinding against the ripped concrete. One glance, the first glance, was all that he needed. 

            Everything was gone and the sky itself was set ablaze in crimson.

 

 


	2. Devil's Cigarette

**_2_**

* * *

 

_Devil’s Cigarette_

_“The world was the devil’s personal cigarette, dancing in his mouth.”_

* * *

 

Graham stared at the sky and the world around him, thunderstruck. The moment he entered into the world, he fell to his knees, eyes unable to absorb his surroundings. The building that he just exited from was a miracle, a half dead survivor amongst the wasteland. Irony of that bit him bitterly. _We have that in common,_ he thought. All of it, every last dime of it felt like an endless nightmare yet he could not wake.

 Before him, the land stretched into a scorched, desolate wasteland. Miles and miles of just dried burnt soil and leafless trees that barely stayed rooted in its soil. Any grass that Graham could see was brown, almost black. The buildings of the camp were all tumbled over. Some were slumped to the side, just skeletons of their old selves. Others were blown to bits, broken in thousands of pieces amongst the ground. Dirt and dust swirled through the broken bones, weathering stone, wood, and metal alike.  

The very air felt broken, even a whiff of it was like taking sandpaper in your mouth. Haze of the heat drifted back and forth in the distance. A part of Graham hoped that what he was seeing was some odd mirage. But, no, he had endured heat like this before. Never in North Carolina, maybe in some desert country, but never in the lush and thriving lands of his home state.

But somehow it wasn’t the bareness of the land that got him the most. 

            It was the sky, set aflame with hues of red, orange, and purple. Thick rainless clouds drifted sickly through their paths. The sun was high in the air, just a dim red ball of light. It was like the entire world was caught in twilight, even though it was obviously midafternoon. Whatever rocked the land had rocked the atmosphere itself. The world itself looked as though it had gone through a war, a war that Graham slept through. He never had a chance to fight back, defend this land. Instead, he was out _cold_ in more ways than one. 

            Graham shifted into a sitting position, rifle in his lap. He stared at his decaying skin for a moment, then at his dirt-covered t-shirt. Blood seeped through the material. Quickly, he pulled off the shirt to meet yet another ghastly tale. Plenty of organs around his stomach were relatively exposed, he could even see a bit of them throbbing slowly. He looked back up, disgusted. No matter where he looked, that same level of disgust followed. Either he was going to look at his dead body or look at a dead world.

            He put his knuckles to his mouth, trying hard to ignore the bone of his index finger. “W—“he tried to speak. No words could adequately describe what he felt right now.

            All that was left was contemplation. How many months have passed? How was he alive in this state? What brought him back? What happened?

            The last one hit him hard in the stomach. What happened? He couldn’t even remember how he died.  Could he even use the word ‘died’? Nevertheless, something killed him and he had no clue how. Was it relatively easy, did he put up a fight? He was a casualty of a pre-war strike. But where would he go now? The world was in a shattered shell of itself, and he had no clue where to start.

            Graham had every intention to leave and go on his own. But, he soon came to another conclusion that it wasn’t the right idea. First off, he had no clue where he would go from here. Of course, he could maybe find a map and hit landmarks he vaguely remembered. That, however, would get him nowhere—except for a place back in the grave he belonged in.  Secondly, if he met with a “normal” person, they would probably attack him on sight. He wasn’t going to risk the life of an innocent because he was confused. He wasn’t sure if he could convince any rational human being that he could be trusted. Tyrus was a good example of that. So, it was smart to wait for the people that already had tolerance than be gunned down by people that didn’t.

The waiting did give him a time to think and mourn in quiet. Seven good men, probably a lot more, was dead throughout the base. Good Marines who risked their lives each and every day for freedom. All of them were gone with nothing to tell their tales. He pinched his nose, wishing for the first time that he could cry. Right now, he couldn’t. He didn’t know if his tear ducts were gone or hadn’t been used in a long time, but they wouldn’t produce tears. Somehow, that fact made him feel worse. _You’re a heartless bastard, David,_ he thought. But he knew that wasn’t true.

            Graham meditated on that for a moment before carefully continuing on with his train of thought. There was probably a lot he needed to be answered. It was no need focusing on them. Instead, he focused on centering his emotions, wading through the thick sea of them. On the outside, he kept a calm face. Yet on the inside, he felt the emotions gnawing at him. It was always like this before a big battle. He would think about emotions and feelings before targeting them at an objective. Right now, the mission was survival. “Survive,” he repeated, hitting himself on the cheek. “Get it together.”

            With his motives in mind, he reclined himself on the ground. Quite a few times, it crossed his mind to go back into the base and help the scavengers. He decided against it. Two people in a crumbling building were safer than three. He just hated doing nothing. Doing nothing meant inevitably trying to process this hell. And this hell couldn’t be processed.

            It wasn’t until a half an hour later that Tyrus and Crisium appeared again. They had emerged from the base, spoils in duffle bags hanging loosely from their shoulder and packs strapped on their back. They looked relatively uninjured aside from a couple of bruises and cuts on the man’s shoulder. Tyrus didn’t seem too bothered by it though. Instead, his brown eyes had grown wide at the sight of Graham lying down on his back in the sand. He seemed oddly surprised by Graham’s appearance. Crisium did not. She held an expecting smile on her face, pushing back her raven hair in amusement. “Told ya, Ty.”

            Tyrus grumbled something unintelligible before handing over his pistol.

            Crisium flashed a smile towards Graham. “Got yourself comfortable.” Her face had no look of surprise despite the rather grisly scene of Graham’s upper body.  “We,” she motioned to the rather uncomfortable looking man beside her, “had a bet. He swore that you would bail. I knew you wouldn’t. Now, I have his pistol. And he owes me a drink from his stash as well. Right, Mr. Banks?”

            Again, Tyrus mouthed something of a curse.

Crisium stuffed her hand in her pocket, exchanging looks with Tyrus. A tickled expression laced her features but she said nothing. Mercifully, she turned her attention back to Graham. “You want somethin’ to cover those—“she searched for the word, “bad spots, hun?”

Graham craned his head up, and looked at the throbbing stomach and somewhat exposed intestines. There were even a few spots where the ribs were exposed. He looked over to Tyrus, whose comfort seemed to slowly melt at the sight. His grumbling intensified. Obviously, they were sharing the same thought: _this was pretty disgusting_. It was a small wonder that Tyrus didn’t vomit. Graham nodded to Crisium and she tossed him a military grade first aid kit.

“So,” Graham said, awkwardly as he tried to open the kit. “What’s going on?”

Crisium cocked an eyebrow.  She placed her duffle bag down, kneeling to Graham. He was obviously too frazzled to open a simple handle, though would easily deny that. “What do you mean?” She clicked it open before pulling down her black tank top. “Oh.” Crisium stood up again. She knew what he was asking. It was obvious. A once simple question had changed meaning so much. It was once used as a conversation starter. Now, it meant a lot more. She groaned, “It’s hard to explain. Ty.”

“Cris,” the large man responded, stepping a few steps back.

“Get your balls out yer purse, Tyrus. He’s not going to eat you,” Crisium growled.

A scowl appeared on Tyrus’s face. “How do I know that, woman? We don’t know what he is or what he needs to survive. I ain’t gettin’ near that, ya hear.”

Graham couldn’t blame him. If the situation was somehow reversed, he would have kept his distance too. He would have kept his gun poised at the beast at all times. Right now, they were acting on trust. They didn’t know he was a good man at heart, who treated his men and himself with respect. On outward appearances alone, that couldn’t be seen. All Tyrus saw was a potential threat that could eat him alive like a horror movie, but in broad daylight.

            However, Crisium wasn’t going to let him slide. “You’ve seen worse, Ty!”

            “That ain’t the point.”

            “Do ya really think that I would just throw my trust at anyone? Just here you go! Take trust from _Crisium the Fool_. No. I’m not dumb. I gotta feeling about him. I feel it—“she pressed her fist against her chest, “Believe me, I’ll be the first to know if there was any danger.”

            Graham silently watched as Tyrus processed that. His expression changed from unsettled to resignation. He knew that he couldn’t entirely get the trust of the dreadlocked man. Nor did he think that Crisium was entirely convinced of the trust either, but she had a hunch going for him. So for now, he would have to deal with what he had and hope that he could at least get through to figuring this all out.

            “Do you think Drifter could explain what happened better than we can?” Crisium asked.

            Tyrus thought long about it. “Yeah, if you can get him to concentrate long enough.”

            “The Drifter?” Graham questioned, finally starting the tourniquet around his stomach. _Going to have to change this regularly,_ he reminded himselfpushing through the train wreck of thoughts. “Is that a person? Or some sort of…” Heck, Graham didn’t _know_ what to think. This all seemed incredibly insane.

            Crisium picked up on his uncertainty quickly. “This must be a cockamamie load of crap for you, huh?”

            _Sure as hell, yes,_ Graham thought. Instead, he nodded. He was used giving clear orders, thus receiving them in a similar fashion. It wasn’t much room for doubt or questioning in his line of work. Yes, adjustments had to be made. He had trained his mind to do so. But, he wasn’t used to fumbling around blindly. It was like trying to find a green marble in knee-high grass. A Marine didn’t have the pleasure or time for things like that. But right now, he had to make time.

            “Well,” Crisium began. “In the same situation, I would think that what I’m gonna to say next is nuts too.” She dug into her pocket to pull out a cigarette from her tan cargo pants. Tyrus looked at her wearily as though slighted by the motion, but she hardly noticed. She placed it in her mouth, unlit. “Just deal with me for a sec.  The Drifter is a man, a powerhouse really, of these lands. A lot of people dubbed him as the “Mayor” of this scorched piece of nothing, but that’s a load of crap.  That would suggest that he sits in some office, makin’ phone calls and laws. Hell if he would even make both.”

            Tyrus tossed Crisium a lighter, which she caught without even looking back. “However, he’s a leader of the most powerful and supplied caravan in the Dusk Territories.”

            Graham arched an eyebrow, “Dusk Territories?”

            Crisium clicked the lighter, its flame erupting with a spark. She waved it against the white end of the cigarette dancing in her mouth. Somehow, the butt of the cigarette reminded Graham of the sky. The sky, in turn, reminded him that he was in hell. Maybe they were the devil’s cigarette right now, swaying in his mouth. That was oddly plausible. “Dusk Territories,” she repeated. “That is what they are callin’ this hell hole now. States…heck the whole country has been in shreds. No chain of command, no president, no nothing.”  

 _This…is insane. All of this shit happened in what, months?_ Graham thought. He could feel his already dry mouth become arid. “So…”

            “So, we survived. There are plenty of people like the Drifter, but he’s one of a kind. He amassed a legion of people, followers. The old man probably never intended for it. However, he made an opportunity out of nothin’. He can be trusted. Power hasn’t corrupted his head, still sharp as an axe.”

            Tyrus laughed. “His brain’s probably too banged up to realize how much power he has.”

            “But he’ll protect what he has and what we have,” Crisium retorted.

            “That he would,” Tyrus agreed. “He’ll help ya get yourself straight, Graham.”

            “How far away is this…caravan?” Even saying it aloud, Graham thought it was crazy. But, right now, he couldn’t debate anything.

            “No further than a few clicks from here. We normally do runs around broken up cities—usually smaller ones. A mutant or demon with every normal and we gather what we can.” Crisium shrugged. “They are probably expecting us back from now.”

            Graham tried to gather the meaning of mutant or the new one, demon, but stopped trying in mid-thought. He wasn’t going to strain his brain. All he needed to do was to get to this caravan. Finishing the field dressing, he got himself up, and dusted the sand off his faded and torn camouflaged pants. He kicked the empty first aid pack aside. “So, what you’re saying is this Drifter might know a little something for me?”

            “Yeah,” Tyrus and Crisium said in unison.

            “He might even let ya chill around for a bit,” Crisium added, blowing a ring of smoke.

            Tyrus rolled his eyes. “He does pick up mutants and demons like stray puppies.”  He looked to Crisium, and both busted out in laughter. “But really, he’ll probably find you interesting. There’re worse, personality wise, than you.”

            “Wood?” Crisium questioned.

            “Wood,” Tyrus answered.

            That wasn’t the first time Graham had heard that name _. He must be some real pain,_ Graham thought. Giving an amused laugh, he slung his assault rifle into his palms. “I suppose that we should get going if they’re expecting you back. They might expect trouble if two of their own is missing.” He knew he would if he sent his men out on a scouting or retrieval mission and they hadn’t returned in the allotted time. “I’ll take point. Just guide me where to go and I’ll make sure you two get there safely. It’s the least I could do for what you have done for me so far.”

            Tyrus and Crisium both gave a blank expression.

It was a very dangerous move that in no way worked in his favor aside for gaining trust. If they were some sort of bandit group leading him to a trap, he would have no way of knowing. However, he was confident. Graham was confident that they could be trusted enough. But if not, he planned some ways of escape.  Training had taught him many things. One of those things was how to be deadly. He could easily wheel himself in a 180, pop their heads off with two shots, and go on his merry way. But he was sure that it wouldn’t have to come to that.

            Graham gave a toothy grin, probably more frightening than reassuring. “Just lead the way.”

_

The Drifter’s company had set up just a few miles from the edge of the base, to the north near what was Jacksonville. Or what was left of the broken city once named Jacksonville. Even from this distance, the city seemed to be in shambles. The entire city was a different landscape than the land around it. Where around the city were badlands, the city itself was like a miniature forest. Tall trees jutted from the toppled buildings, wild grass broke through the dark soil. An indigo haze drifted around it, hanging loosely on the threshold of the inner city. He squinted, trying to see more of the city to no avail. Yet, he could easily settle on dealing with the majesty of the caravan instead.

            Every assumption that Graham made about this caravan was wrong. He had expected something worse, something less put together. _This_ was like a well-oiled machine. Some armies in the old world (if he could even call it that) would have envied this.

            It was almost the size of a flank of an army. There were three main types of vehicles. The first were the RVs, armored in sheets of salvaged metal, making them almost aegis-like. A few spots from some of them were cut out for the inhabitants to shoot from if need be. Larger ones, specifically on the outer ring, had guns attached to them to better help with firefights; however, Graham could tell from here that they were just the residential trucks. There were many much more equipped for the fighting, but these were no slouch.

            The second types of vehicles were the armored trucks and Humvees. They were painted completely black, and looked insanely tough with their added metals. They were packed heavily, most of them having mini turrets welded to the top where a man or a woman was always stationed. A few had rocket and grenade launchers in addition. These vehicles sent memories through Graham’s brain. He had spent a lot of his time in and around Humevees, bumping around and complaining in equal measures. More memories of his squad surfaced but he pushed them aside.  It still took all the will in the world not to head towards one instinctively.

            He didn’t however. His main reason was that he remained frozenly aghast by the last vehicle, tanks. The Drifter had acquired two. The pair of hulky M1 Abrams sat on each end of the long chain. Like the trucks, these were crudely painted black, yet held a symbol of a single painted storm cloud on the side. In comparison to the others, the Abrams were behemoths in a sea of rabbits. If the other ones were equipped heavily, these were equipped for annihilation. They were modified for gun fire, rocket fire, probably even worse. They were well maintained and armed to the teeth.   They could receive fire, and just as easily answer back tenfold.

            _The upkeep of this must be insane,_ Graham thought, pale eyes wandering.

            Crisium and Tyrus now took the lead, heading for the largest of the RVs. Graham followed, now somewhat aware of the eyes that watched him. Men, women, and children all matched his movements with their eyes. Who wouldn’t? Not only was he armed pretty well and looked proficient, but he was frightening. They were probably thinking of the horrible things that could be done to them. Something along the lines of him firing at their knee caps and subsequently pinning them down to eat them alive. Graham knew that he would do no such thing, but they didn’t. If it wasn’t for him “escorting” two members of their crew, he would have been riddle with holes by now.

            Or maybe he would’ve been rewarded with a rocket to the face.  Suddenly, Graham felt fortunate that he wasn’t taking those chances.

            Crisium knocked on the door of what appeared to be the central headquarters of the caravan. It was painted differently. Instead of just the normal black, it had a streak of silver down the side. The mark of the wispy cloud was on the side of it, absent on all the other RVs. This had to be the Drifter’s residence. The willowy woman tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for the door to swing open. “Dammit Drifter,” she muttered.

            A few minutes passed before the door opened. Instead of an older man, however, a young man answered the door with a glazed and tired expression on his face. Crisium snarled and Tyrus folded his arms defensively, neither being too ecstatic to see him.

            The young man in his early-twenties was only in his plaid boxers, and even those were too big for him. His body was long, lanky with all of his bones visible under a thin layer of pale white, hairless skin. The hair that he did have on his messily cut head was a deep sickly green. Above his upper lip was an ill-attempt at a moustache, which appeared to be nothing more than a green patch of fuzz. His chin, sharply gaunt as the rest of his body, had faired a bit better with facial hair, but not by much. He stared at Crisium, green eyes narrowed and a weak smirk creeping up on the corner of his thin lips. “Cris.”

            Crisium stood stiffly. “Wood,” she said from the side of her mouth.

            Wood kept his grin as his bare and skeletal feet guided him down the metal stairs.

Graham could basically hold the awkward tension between the three. They didn’t like him. He was hard to look at, yes. But there felt like another story was being told.

            “Wood, ya heard of clothes?” Crisium grunted, backing up.

            “Yeah,” Wood said distractedly. “I’ve heard of ‘em.” He paused, his attention caught on Graham. “And what have you brought us.” His voice tone, oddly normal despite his appearance, held no change. It was akin to him asking, _what did you bring from the store?_   The skinny man, almost sleepily, tilted his head to look pass Tyrus.

            “Brought your _uncle_ a person to see, Wood,” Tyrus explained tersely.

            “Aren’t we all family here?”  His two fellow members gave Wood a cold and silent reception. Wood didn’t grin this time. Instead, he lost all of his expression, leaving a void. He calmly pushed Crisium from his line of sight, receiving a sneer from the woman in return. The sounds of his feet against the dry land sung as he closed the gap with Graham. It wasn’t long before the tall man loomed over the shorter soldier. “You’re a new one.” He laughed, “Can _it_ speak?” The legitimacy in the question was blunt, like a hammer crashing into Graham’s head, to say the least.

            “He can,” Graham said, unfazed. Wood, as they called him, hardly seemed like the taunting type. However, Graham wasn’t going to fall for it even if he was. They stared at each other for a moment, feeling each other out like men in the same territory would. A part of Graham felt the need to throw him over his shoulder, but suppressed it.  He was here to make a somewhat good impression. This went on for a few seconds before Wood arched an eyebrow and backed up.

            “Ah—“Wood nodded, detaching himself from the wordless confrontation as though bored with it. “No offense, but thought it was important to check.”

            “How responsible of you, Wood,” Crisium said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

             “Best damn security ever,” Tyrus added.

            Despite the disdainful comments, Wood gave an almost genuine laugh. The young man turned on his heels and back up the stairs of the truck. “Follow me—“he reached for a name.

            “David Graham,” the corporal said with a nod.

            “Follow me, David,” Wood stopped again, watching the other two people follow Graham up the stairs. He put out his hand, making a _n ahem_ sound as though the two were children caught doing something they weren’t supposed to do. Both of their faces flared with anger. “Crisium, Tyrus, Uncle told me to tell you when you got back to check on truck three or four. I don’t quite remember. Check on both.”

            “Great selective memory you got there.”

            Wood nodded knowingly at Tyrus’s response, scratching the stubble of his cheek. “I just don’t care enough to remember small things. Go. Go. Make yourself useful.”

            Crisium opened her mouth to say something, but was quickly taken aside by Tyrus. “We better get going on helping those trucks, David. We’ll get to talk a little later. Come on Cris, before you say something.” Tyrus urged the woman on. It took almost all of his power to drag the woman away. A fight was about to happen over Wood’s words. Wood hardly even noticed. That, however, made Crisium even angrier. If Tyrus wasn’t bigger than she was, the next phase would have been Wood and herself tumbling on the ground, fist flying.

            There was one-sided animosity there, and it crashed like waves.

            Graham shook his head. “Are you trying to get her mad on purpose?”

            Wood raised his eyebrow again, “She was mad?”

            Now, Graham could see it clearly. The man just didn’t give a flying leap about anything.

Graham followed Wood into the interior of the RV.  He peered around for a moment. It seemed pretty standard, a bit anticlimactic in comparison to everything else. There were wooden cabinets on both walls, a small eating area to the right of the door, a two cushioned areas for the occupants to sleep or lounge. The vehicle was far from clean, but could easily have been worse. The windows were clouded by the constant rain of dirt. Clothes sat haphazardly piled in corners, trash littered the floor, and various maps and drawings were sprawled out on the tables and counters. Of course, the one part that was clean was the gun rack.

            Wood quickly grabbed a pair of lime green pajama pants, and slipped them over his thin body. “Don’t expect this all the time,” he explained. “You’re new, so maybe I should wear something…” He went into a bit of whispering mumble after that. He proceeded deeper into the RV before disappearing into a side door. “Unc. Unc. Get up, you’ve a visitor.”

            “Five more,” a long drawl of a voice yawned.

            “Seconds?

            “Minutes, my boy.”

            “Not going to entertain anyone for five minutes, Unc.”

            The old man, which Graham assumed to be the Drifter, gave a haughty laugh. “You ain’t no help, Wood.”

            Wood didn’t give a response, just exited the side room. He sat in the nearest seat, and kicked his feet up on a low window pane. A normal person would have informed Graham that his uncle would be out in a second. Wood, though, easily decided that it was implied and relaxed himself, free of the burden of being a host. _The entire two or so minutes he was one,_ Graham noted.

            Sounds of rumbling and tumbling rippled from the small room. It only ceased when the old man stumbled out of his bedroom, cane in hand.  The Drifter, a man in his late fifties or early sixties, brushed back his stringy white hair. His skin was just as pale as his nephews, yet sagged a bit here and there. He wore a straggly beard that hung loosely on his face like some sort of white furred animal. His eyes, startlingly blue, stared at Graham. “Hm,” was his only reaction.

            The Drifter leaned on his cane as he observed Graham closely. Graham followed suit. _It’s better to know someone when they’re sizing you up._

            From the looks of it, this old man didn’t seem powerful. He looked crazy with his long hair, thin tank top, battered jeans, and worn and yellowed work boots. But, he stood with majesty and deep understanding. The look in his eyes seemed almost mad, but held wisdom. The air that he presented around him made Graham recognize and intuitively respect him. Somehow, he felt that The Drifter had the same thought about him. 

            “Name, son?” The Drifter said. He walked forward, caning Wood’s ankles in the process, earning the young man’s howl.

              “Corp…” he stopped. Somehow the title that he was used to saying felt fragmented in his mouth. Drifter lowered his broken lensed glasses, wanting more. No, he was expecting more. That ice cold glance somehow loosened his tongue. “Corporal,” he finished. Graham frowned. “Corporal David Graham of the United States Marine Corp, sir.”

            “Sir?”  Drifter gave a humorless, wild laugh. “Ain’t heard that one in a _long_ time. Formalities are dead son, don’tcha know that.”

            “Actually…I don’t.”

            Drifter cocked his head back as though struck by his statement. “Pardon me?”

            “I’ve been asleep, dead, whatever since the world…” Graham toyed with words in his mind, nothing worked. “Since whatever happened out there.”

            This amused Drifter to the point that he almost slipped off of his cane. The little stunt earned a bit of a low chuckle from his nephew, which it quickly receded when he raised his cane. The grizzled man wobbled to an empty seating area, pushed all of the stuff on the table to the floor, and sat down. He nodded for Graham to sit, and he did.

            “Your story, son. Tell it.”

            Graham gave a sigh, as he quickly retold his story. Recounting it verbally felt as though it breathed life into the situation, once somewhat fiction in his head at the time.  Drifter seemed to be oddly intrigued, despite the general briefness of it. Even Wood, a few meters away, looked somewhat interested by the story of a lone survivor of a broken military base. At the end, Graham shook his head. “I—I just don’t have any clue what is going on.”

            There was silence for a few minutes as Drifter washed his hands against the rounded top of his cane.  It was his laughter that broke the silence. “I’m surprised that you aren’t crazy, boy! Waking up like that, finding people dead, having no clue what’s going on.” He laughed some more. “That would have killed this old man.”

            “No it wouldn’t have,” Wood remarked, dryly. Drifter shot him a look. Wood, shaking his head, continued looking out of the window.

             “But I guess an introduction is in order. Welcome to the Dusk Territories.”


	3. Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graham is sent on rescue mission to save two Drifter's crew. Perhaps, he can learn a bit about his condition while he worked.

 3

* * *

 

_Experiment_

_“In the worst situations, it’s best just to try something. No preparation. Just go.”_

* * *

 

 

Drifter arose to tell his tale, as though he was relaying a ceremonious event behind a podium. He paced around the cramped living space, one hand in his pocket and the other grasping his beloved cane. It was a long tale, one that Graham was sure he wouldn’t have believed if the situation was any different. Every word that exited through the man’s mouth felt like it was spun with lies. But, there was a look in his eyes, one that told the truth. That didn’t mean that Graham entirely accepted it.

            According to Drifter, in early 2015, the world was consumed suddenly by madness. A flame sparked between countries, quickly consuming better judgment and peace. From the way that the storyteller told the story, the entire world just went mad. Things escalated fast into a full out bloodshed. It wasn’t World War III per say; but, just a blood bath that soaked the world. No politics, no build up, just sudden and absolute rains of death. New weapons were being used, obtained by some unknown companies that worked the strings in the background. Nuclear attacks, biological weapons, viruses, all reshaped the world into the cataclysmic, highly unpredictable world of today.

            That was implausible in Graham’s mind at least. “You’re lying,” Graham accused.

            Drifter shifted his weight to his other leg. “Why’d you say that,” the old man asked.

            “That couldn’t have happened.”

            “No, no. That’s not what I was asking. Why do you think I’m _lying_ , son?”

            Graham opened his mouth to speak. He quickly closed it, knowing all too well that his accusation was a conjecture. He could point fingers and pretend that what he heard was lies. The caravan leader might have been mad out of his mind, but Drifter had the world as his evidence.

            And it was probably the best evidence he could ever bring to the table to back his case.

            The world itself had suffered tremendously under the blight of sudden hatred. Countries were reshaped, entire states ascended towards the skies and submerged to the seas.  Climate had changed dramatically. He only had to look outside for that. The populous trees and grassy lands were gone in some areas, and thrived hungrily in others. From the small peek that Graham had of Jacksonville, it almost matched up with what the Drifter said. He shook his head, rubbing his temples. “Alright, let’s say these attacks really did happen and the world is really messed up.”

            “We’re speakin’ in hypotheticals now, son?” Drifter questioned.

            “For now.” Graham knew that he was losing logical ground quickly. Before long, he would have to collapse hard in the reality, the cold reality. “I’ve heard your people talking about demons and mutants. What are those exactly?”

            “No one knows much,” Drifter started. He went on briefly, about what he knew about them. “Mutants are the products of the biological weapon known as P-X3, a powerful gas substance fired at the smaller cities. Most people died instantly from it, yet not everyone’s body responded the same. Some went mad and transformed into monsters. Others are…trickier. They can range from pure out ugly to somewhat normal, but still easily recognizable. My boy and Crisium are my heavy hitters,” Drifter said thoughtfully. “There ain’t a mutant that’s the same, my boy. I suppose you can be counted as one,” Drifter grinned. Graham, however, frowned. It was a nerve wrecking thought.

            “So these people are…mutated?”

            Drifter cocked his head to Wood. The young man was curled up, knees to his chest, sleeping. “Did ya wonder why Wood had green hair and Crisium’s eyes glow yellow?”

            “It had occurred to me…” Graham said, sighing.

            “Side-effect.” Drifter stroked his chin, “Weren’t even recognizable when I found them.”

            “Some of them can transform…?”

            “The luckier ones…and I’m guessin’ you’re not a lucky one.”

            Graham massaged his temples a little harder, feeling a small portion of exposed bone of his own skull. “I guess I’m not.” He closed his eyes. “Demons. What about those?”

            “Oh those, those are much more dangerous. Demon, they look normal. They’ll have dinner with ya and even enjoy the company before they do somethin’ crazy like explode your inners. Powerful creatures, humans who had survived the Z-12. The chemical bombs attacked the body and killed in a slower way, even spread like any virus.  However, much like the P-X3 there were survivors. Some said there were survivors due to the body creating anti-toxin. Others say it was pure luck. Every survivor, as little as they are, came out with something, a skills and power. They could do anything from decaying men’s bones, healing, to some degree of a magic-like quality. Demons, a mad priest had called them, as he was torn to pieces on radio. I suppose it stuck.”

            _You don’t say,_ Graham thought.  

            “Yeah. They’re dangerous, alright. Very few in the world. I gotta few, and I mean a few, on the caravan.”

            Graham’s fingers tapped against the surface of the table. “These Demons has some sort of superpowers?” He growled, climbing up the thought. “Like comic book shit?”

            “Is that so outlandish for a walking corpse with a rifle on his back?” Drifter said, amusingly.

            Graham twitched the corner of his lips. Drifter had a point.

            “So, you’re telling me the world just went to shit? No explanation. No real reason.”

            Drifter gave a bit of a shrug. He approached his water-filled sink, dipping a tin cup into the basin.  He splashed the water in the cup for a while, before taking experimental sips. “I don’t remember saying there wasn’t a real reason to this madness.”

            “You suggested it.”

            “Did I?”

            “You did.”

            Drifter smirked, his uneven teeth showing. He walked around silently for a moment, sipping at the lukewarm water like a high end wine. He kept his cool for a few seconds, but Graham could see it grow. The smirk grew into a grin, a grin to a smile, and that smile to a dry, mad laughter. He cocked his head back, guffawing until he was almost out of breath. Graham hardly found it to be a humorous topic, but Drifter was taking it like it was some sort of game. Maybe he was winning. Maybe he was losing, and didn’t care. Perhaps he was just so happy to be playing. An unsettling feeling settled in Graham’s gut, this was the standard for people in this new and harsh world. At least, the leader had some morals, some ethics to hold on to. If not, these people wouldn’t have trusted him for so long. Would they?

            “We don’t know why the timer was set for the world to implode,” Drifter chuckled, “We just don’t know. Don’t mean that it ain’t one.”

            “Countries don’t start wars for no apparent reason; just firing weapons like that for God knows what.” A burning passion settled in Graham’s chest that he tried to suppress throughout this conversation. This didn’t make sense. All this, it just seemed impossible to happen in …a few months, maybe a year.

            “Why not?”

            Drifter shot him a stare. The answer was cold. And Graham didn’t have a response. It was true. Why not? Why couldn’t the world just decide to off itself? Men were mad. Unclear memories of his deployments, muddled in the course of this lunacy, surfaced. There were no reasons for a lot of things that was done. Men were indeed mad. But, something didn’t make sense. A part of him knew that this wasn’t the entire truth. “Have you ever wondered?”

            “Why’d ya think I’m here,” Drifter closed his eyes, nodding. “First, I needed to survive. So, I did. But…” Drifter slammed the tin can against the counter. “ _You_ may find something that I don’t know yet.”

            A knock on the door interrupted Drifter from speaking again.

            Drifter stared at the door for a while, hearing the knocks. He counted them off, an odd sort of habit.  It wasn’t until the fifth one that he opened the door. He answered it with an empty, but delighted facial expression. “Somethin’ wrong, Raleigh?” Despite the visitors huffing and puffing, Drifter kept his light southern-tinged voice at a remarkably aloof level.

            “Drifter, sir! There’s something wrong!”

            “I can see that, boy,” Drifter responded amused. 

            Graham readied his gun. If his host noticed, he made no indication of it. 

            “Come in, Raleigh.”

            Drifter moved aside to let the barrel-chested, blonde haired man enter the vehicle. Raleigh, broad and tall, barely fit into the thin corridor. He was covered in sweat, his oil stained t-shirt drenched. He took a few seconds to get his breath, hands on his knees.  He looked up momentarily, when he finally got himself together. His grey eyes went wide at the sight of Graham. He backed up, touching the leather of his holster of his pistol. “W-what is that?” The man pointed his stubby finger at Graham, who in turn, eyed him calmly. “Drifter, there is a—“

            “A zombie in my RV? I think I’ve noticed,” Drifter chuckled darkly. “Think I’m _that_ senile?”

            Raleigh shook off his stupidity, trying to hide it behind a horrible mask of coolness. “Heron and Juvencio have gone missing. They’ve gone into the Plagues and haven’t come back yet. We need to go after them.”

            The two men stared at each other blankly, before Drifter just nodded his head. “Well I guess that makes sense,” he said simply. Raleigh gave a confused look as though he didn’t expect that response.

            “Really?”

            Drifter popped him on the head with his cane, causing the young man to tumble forward, tears in his eyes. “No. Do you think it’s smart to go willy-nilly into the Plagues, lad?” Drifter asked. “Nah. It’s a pretty bad idea.”

            “But those people…”

            “Those people indeed,” Graham said, readying to stand up. It only took a quick snap of Drifter’s cane to bar him from doing so.

            “No heroics, now.”

            Graham crossed his arms. Two of Drifter’s comrades were lost in some part of the land called the Plagues. From the name alone, the land must have been violent. Assumptions would lead a man to believe it to be a bad place to be lost. No. It was a bad place, period. And here he was about to leave them to be killed or worse in a place that was far too dangerous to be. _He would do that._ The people had too much trust in the old man for him to not at least try. He gritted teeth, but reeled in the rest.

            Drifter must have seen the quick flash of anger in Graham, noting it with his eyes. “The Plagues are held by…” he edged on.

            Raleigh’s brain, not the most used tool in his arsenal, churned for an answer. “Ragnar’s pack , sir?”

            “Right,” Drifter patted Raleigh on the head. Fitting gesture, Graham noted, since the poor sap looked like he deserved some sort of treat. Graham smirked at the memory of a man he once knew; the face was long since blurred.  “If my memory serves me correctly,” Drifter continued, “Ragnar has a personal debt to settle.”

            “I’m assuming it’s not a friendly sort of debt,” Graham said. 

            “It can talk!” Raleigh cried out. The blunt crack of Drifter’s increasingly dangerous cane on the side of the head shut him up, albeit almost giving him a concussion.

            “Ragnar is a...” Drifter mouthed a couple of words to himself, looking up to the ceiling. “Interesting. No too boring. Unfriendly, too blunt. Vengeful…yeah. Ragnar’s a rancorous man. He blames me for something that happened. I don’t quite remember what.” He turned to Graham. “You mind helpin’ me with this problem, Mr. Marine.”

            _Now that wasn’t fair._ Yes, it was a reasonable request. Drifter had no reason to tell him any of this, no reason to keep his company. But, he did.  Ultimately, asking him to help reached out to the better part of Graham. Besides, Graham didn’t like debts. Debts meant you owed something, and owing something meant power over them. But, curiosity would kill him nevertheless and there were innocent people in trouble. “Do you want me to go to that place…the Plagues?”

            Drifter hummed innocently. “I’m _not really_ asking. But if you want to,” he nodded, “It would help me a lot. And don’t want to miss Ragnar’s surprise party.”

            _Good man,_ Graham thought. Anyone that knew anything about hostage situations knew what the next phase would be. Taking hostages only achieved two things, reward or distraction. These men aren’t interested in reward.  So, it was a trap, a good one. This Ragnar fellow was setting a trap, specifically to get some of the power players from the Caravan out of the way; most likely the stronger ones. Drifter would have to send a mutant, a demon, or a trained platoon of soldiers. But, with Graham added to the mix, he would satisfy two of three of those. Maybe he wasn’t a platoon of soldiers good, but he was good at what he did.  “The Plagues,” Graham commented, “What are they like?”

            “Dark, grisly, filled with cannibals,” Drifted explained with a yawn. “A Tuesday afternoon, really.”

            “How about I go alone? And you bunk down here for the—“

            “Ambush,” Drifter finishing Graham’s thought with a sigh. “Yeah, yeah.”

            Raleigh confused on the line of thought, stared down at his feet.  “How you know it’s going to be an ambush?” He asked the two men.

            “A hunch.”

            “A Marine.”                                            

            “Hehe. Your answer is a lot more dependable, Corporal,” Drifter said as he hobbled toward the sleeping Wood. He shook the young man awake, receiving a sleepy gaze and annoyed gaze. “Come on, son. I’m gonna need you.”

            Wood murmured an annoyed agreement, bearing his teeth for a moment.

            “Bark at me again, and I’ll knock them teeth out.”

 “Something up, Unc,” Wood yawned, correcting himself. He looked at Raleigh, who turned incredibly pale at Wood’s presence. “Someone got lost, didn’t they, and you want me to help find the idiots?”

            Raleigh bit his lower lip as though he wanted to say something, but was far too nervous to do so.

            “Lucky day, you will be staying around here, my boy!”

            “Then why the hell am I up?” Wood grumbled, placing his feet on the floor and jabbing his fist in his cheek in an expression of boredom.

            “I’m going to need you for the show.”

            Wood took the news with relatively no change in emotions. But, Graham felt it. He saw it in Raleigh’s expression as well. Wood was the last thing that anyone wanted to see in battle. Graham and Wood had that in common, but people respected Graham. People feared Wood to the point that he wasn’t even trustworthy to everyone around him. He was there at one point.

            “I guess I should head out,” Graham said, standing. “Wood, we’re going to have to talk when I get back.” 

            Wood arched an eyebrow. “About what?”  Apparently, he wasn’t used to anyone planning to talk with him.

            “You’ll see when I get back.”

            Drifter crossed his arms. “Making plans on before ya even got out of the door? Pretty confident, boy?”

            “Damn sure needed to be, if not, I would have got my ass handed to me.”

            Drifter laughed, knowing all too well that was true.

_

The seemingly endless red day brought itself around to a much cooler night. Graham eyed the harsh blue sky above him. The night was just as stunning as the day.  Where before the stars and the moon often hung on a black backdrop, now stood a harsh sky filled with dark cobalt blues and lighter purples. Black clouds sailed above as thinly made ships on an open sea. Within this new celestial roof were nebulas, probably some after effects of the various weapons. “It may be true…” Graham said to himself.

            All of it could be true.

            Graham shook off his stray thoughts, adopting a more serious demeanor. He pulled up the shemagh— received from the Drifter’s stock—to his face. The Plagues were the outside rim of the boggy forest, ruminations of Jacksonville. While the nuclear attacks scorched most of the city itself, what was left was taken by the PX-3. From what Graham understood, or at least what he guessed, that the biological weapon promoted insane amounts of growth. Even standing a quite a distance away, he could see the gnarly, hooked vegetation yearning to take a life.

            He had never really spent time in a forest, at least in battle. Desert was his forte, that’s all he had seen for months…even years. So he had to be careful and plot out his plan of attack. He had no intel and low light, even his improved nocturnal eyesight wasn’t going to help him in pitch darkness. But hopefully, prayfully, that meant the same thing for the pack of cannibals stationed here.  Either way, he would have to start off stealthy.

            Sneaking wasn’t his better suit, Graham knew. He was trained as a Rifleman, not a Scout Sniper or Recon. He didn’t fancy the in-depth tactics that went into those specific Military Occupation Specializations. Now, a part of him wished that he had listened. Lance Corporal Victor Calder, the Recon man on Graham’s squad, had always told his CO to watch in case he ever needed it. Graham, being half too hard headed and half too prideful, hardly did. Now, he was straining for just a slither of advice. “Fuck you, Victor,” Graham muttered.

            He grasped the gun in his hand harder. His amount of ammo was good enough to take down at least several people, normal people. If anything that Drifter said was true—albeit it is looked more and more towards that direction—they might have some nasty mutants…or demons. The very thought of that would have sent chills in his blood if he already wasn’t cold. There were endless possibilities of what this Ragnar fellow might have waiting at his camp. Thinking about it wasn’t going to get Graham any closer.

            All he could do is take them out quickly and…

            A thought struck him, a few meters from where the wastelands ended and the Plagues began.

            It was an experiment. He was sure he could call it that.

            Graham began looking at this from a different light. His thoughts tingled with the thrill. Despite it all, in his heart of hearts, battle still excited him. And this was the first time he would have to actively adapt to his…condition.

In the same position, if he was alive, he would be cold, hungry, and tired. Right now, he wasn’t any of those things. Yes, he could feel a small nudge of fatigue and his body still meekly registered temperature. But, it wasn’t like he would be if he was alive. So it did have its perks. Being a decayed corpse had so many obvious negatives in his head for his humanity—however, he would have to make it work. 

A brief, soundless fifteen minute jog had led him to the tall menacing trees of the Plagues. Staring up, all he could see was the purple underbelly of the canopy. Long vines drooped from the pointed tree branches. Flowers hardly native to the East Coast—maybe not even this side of the world—hung from the vines. Even in the dark, Graham could see a trickle of purple mist oozing from the center of those seemingly harmless flowers. Instincts told him not to breathe.

He cleared each of his sides, becoming more aware of the dangers of these lands. Pieces of dismembered skeletons lied scattered near the roots of the trees. Victims of the tree’s mist, he guessed, whatever it did. Or something worse, far worse could have torn them to pieces.  He couldn’t save them now, either way. If the Drifter’s men were lucky, they might still be alive. If not, they were probably in the belly of a beast…or a human. _Can’t rule that out._

Graham preceded onward, crouching low and taking advantage of any and all cover that he could. The shadows had provided great cover, but he had to keep an eye out for any men. Mentally, he knew that the chances of men in the higher parts of the canopy were low. The lavender haze was much thicker, like swollen clouds, the higher the trees ascended. As natives of the Plagues, they probably knew the dangers and decided not to risk it….

The thought struck him soon after, and he couldn’t help himself from smirking.

That was the key to finding their hideout. Ragnar’s pack would probably stay in a place with water and a safe haven from the toxic. So all he had to find is a place where the mist was thinnest or nonexistent and they would most likely be there. “ _Good job, Graham,_ ” he thought. “ _You aren’t a complete blockhead.”  
            _ All he had to do now was find a place like that. He moved slow, watching everything around himself. Occasionally, he would aim down his sights, peering through the irons in case of movement. He kept himself in this practice. At any time, he could be ambushed. The landscape of the forest hardly helped.

Time felt like it stood still in this labyrinth. Occasionally, Graham would see wreckage of the suburbs of Jacksonville. Old houses and sheds, rusted cars, broken picket fences were dispersed unevenly through the forest. It was hard to believe that this place was populated not too long ago. The Plagues were like another world, dropped into and stitched upon the Earth. This place had easily exceeded all of his deployments as places he would never visit voluntarily.

Hours passed and still nothing. He walked, mind slowing from the constant mental work. There were times where he felt the need to close his eyes. Though the body didn’t yearn for rest, the man inside did. It was hard having a body that seemingly never tired while your brain weakened. Mistakes could easily be made. He forced himself to stop, leaning against a tree and slumping down. _Alright, you’re half-dead, not invincible._  Even now, he still felt ridiculous thinking that.

Graham worked through his surroundings. From the height of the trees, if he was any judge, he was near the middle. He then focused on sounds. Wind held the majority, howling through the small holes opening to the sky. But when listening closely, he could hear water…maybe even a crackling of fire. He tried hard to tune into that sound and where it was coming from. Maybe a few miles away—or maybe several, he wasn’t quite sure how good his hearing was now, or the acoustics of the forest. He stood up again, allowing his body to lead him.

            _Northeast_ , he decided.  He continued in that direction, and was rewarded with much more audible sounds. In the abyss of darkness, he saw it. He saw the lagoon.

            All of the trees were cleared away from around the water and the nearby cove. The water looked surprisingly clean, aside from the remote puddles of red. The purple mist was clear here, but surrounded the outer rim like a ring. A cave stood on the far end of the water, surrounded by several mud huts. From here, Graham could see a small fire billowing black smoke into the noses of the trees. Four figures were huddled around it.

            In addition to those four men, there were two patrols on opposite sides of the lake. They moved almost lazily around the shore, comfortable in their safety. _Patrol duty is like that_ , Graham thought. _They’re so sure that no one can, or will, attack. They believe that they can’t be infiltrated. They believe they are safe._  It was the nature of humans, but also the nature of prey.

            Staying within the ring of fog and the shadows, he approached the camp to get a better look. There were indeed four men, standing around a fire. They had long since lost their humanity. What was left were bipedal beast, long haired and pale, so soaked in blood that it stained their skins. They were having a late dinner, a young woman. Entrails poured from the stomach, eye socket empty. Squashed pink and red meat sat at the cannibals’ feet, each taking large hunks of it with their hands. The crazed look on their faces was like they were enjoying a sick Thanksgiving dinner.

            “When are we gonna get to eat the other two?” one of the men asked, wiping the blood from his uneven blonde beard.

            “Ragnar said not to touch ‘em til he gets back with the Drifter!” another man howled.

            “But—but—“the first man stuttered, “this isn’t enough and they looks so delicious!’

            Thickly set man, bald with a long burnt wheat-colored beard answered. “Remember what Ragnar did with the last man who ate his dinner.”

            The blonde haired animal grinned, showing his bloody teeth. “Yeah. Poor Mark.” He snickered with a high pitched laughter. “Ragnar still uses his bones for tooth picks.”

            “So don’t touch Ragnar’s food until he comes back with the Drifter!”

            “How do we know he’s goin’ to even come back with the Drifter?” A black haired man questioned. Everyone stared at him with a scowl. He, in turn, popped an eyeball of the woman in his mouth and shut up.

            “Ragnar’s gonna come back with the Drifter. We just need to shut up and take Beastmaster’s orders.”

            The three men looked at the last man. He was the shortest and thinnest of the group. Graham assumed that he was Beastmaster—the leader, or rather the second-in-command. Unlike the others, he had faced himself in a way that he couldn’t be ambushed, back against the wall of a hut. His amber eyes stared into the distance, dark brown hair madly around his cheeks and chin like a mane. Surprisingly, he was the only one beardless, which would have made his lion-like appearance that more fitting. Instead, he wore stubble that reached up to the corners of his cheekbones. He was quieter than the rest, much more aware, sniffing the air every so often.

            “Keep your eyes open,” a surprisingly deep voice leaked from the man’s lips. “You’ll never know when we will…have a visitor. “

            If Graham’s adrenaline worked correctly, his heart would have skipped. He had to act fast. If one person would to notice, it would be Beastmaster.

            The patrols had to go first.  He could have fired, killing all of those four men in a long burst. However, that would alert the others. The patrols were armed, and maybe had some sort of ability. Graham wasn’t about to risk that. So instead, he was about to take them out, stealthy. He allowed the gun to hang loosely from the strap on his chest.

            Graham had already decided his first target. The first patrol that he saw was sloppy.  The guard dangled around the rim, a bit too closely. A stalker, unaffected by the miasma, could easily ambush him. Of course, that was not possible in the guard’s mind. Yet it wasn’t impossible either.

            A proper distance away from the four men around the fire, he waited for the clumsy guard. He kept low, watching as the chubby man with a self-made hatchet walk into his line of attack. Though stealth wasn’t a specialty that he could brag about, close quarter combat was. Graham had grabbed the man’s arm, tossed him over his shoulder, and slammed him down in an expertly done hip toss. When the bandits open his mouth to howl in pain, the flower’s pollen strangled him. His face turned blue, followed by an instant fever and some heavy breathing. Toxic, the trees was excreting it as some sort of defense mechanism.

            _Sorry ‘bout that,_ Graham thought, motioning with his eyes. _Just had to experiment._ He put him out of his misery, a swift stomp on the man’s neck with his thick combat boots. It was an instant death, a much greater mercy than the pain that shot through the man’s body.

            Graham peeked out of the cover of the trees to see that the second patrol was now on his side of the lake. Actually, it was a woman, but only in gender. The short haired, ghastly looking beast stared almost viciously from the other side, probably looking for her fellow guardsmen. “Heath. Where are you, dammit?”

            Graham smiled before pulling himself back. A lure was needed and he just happened to have one. With a small kick, Heath’s body flipped over, allowing just his arm to jut out of cover of the purple leaves and shadows.

            The woman approached the arm carefully. “Heath? What are you doing out there? Are you trying to get yours—“Her sentence felt to silence in her mouth. The curiosity was rewarded with her neck being snapped, and simultaneously tossed into the shadows.

            Two were dead in a matter of a couple of minutes. Killing and protecting was what he did, and he knew he was as much as a weapon as he was a man.

            Graham grabbed the gun now. The four men had probably realized that something was terribly wrong by now, and was preparing themselves for a fight. Too bad they would have to deal with a present first. He pulled a grenade from his hip.

            Wheeling out of the cover, Graham quickly gauged his distance between himself and the party. In a flash of instinct, a lot slower than he would have wanted without adrenaline, pulled the pin on his grenade and tossed it. The perception was a bit wrong, given that he wanted to take out all three of the forerunners. Instead, the cooked grenade that erupted into a fiery explosion claimed only two lives. The third, the gaunt yellow beast, survived, though showered in the blood, guts, and brains of his fallen comrades.

            That didn’t stop his charge. Unaffected by the deaths of his brothers, the savage started to spray bullets towards his attacker.  Fire from his weapon was sloppy, but still almost slammed Graham in the chest. If he hadn’t kept moving, using a large boulder for cover, he would have been shot. But untrained was untrained, and he would pay the price.

            Graham made him pay for his ill gun use with a calculated fire of his own. There was a difference, a gap as long as a canyon. Where the cannibal’s fire was wild, Graham’s was precise. Years of marksmanship training with guns like these were child’s play. Where the cannibal’s missed, the Marine had hit with little effort. All nine rounds, fired at three burst a piece, made contact at the chest and the head. He would have made that hit every time. Riddled with holes, the attacker fell to his knees; dead before gravity could even bring him down.

            _One more, twenty or so rounds left._ The man named Beastmaster still lived…and was smiling.

            “You’re what I felt—“Beastmaster’s words were cut off by the M16A2 shots.

            Death didn’t take him. The small, feline-like man stood unaffected by the bullets. A smile sat on the corner of his lip as two grey birds, almost as wide as bucklers, sat twitching at his feet. Their stomachs had taken the blows from the bullets, under a dense layer of fat. Blood leaked from their beaks and open wounds, slowly soaking Beastmaster’s bare feet in a puddle of red. He took some steps forwards, dark soil sticking to the soles of his feet. “Rude creature, aren’t you?”

            Graham loaded his gun, tossing aside the empty mag for a fresh one. He poised himself for another round of fire, only to be knocked to his side. His head struck the ground, seeing nothing of what struck him at first. A weight of two-hundred or more pounds pressed itself on his chest, more than enough to crush the gun into lump of metal in his hand. The blue-furred monster bellowed, drooling globs of saliva on his chest.  It was some sort of cat, none like he had ever encountered in his life. And, it was under the Beastmaster’s control.

            “I don’t know what you are and what this was. But it’s over. Goodbye, Mister Dragur. Thanks for dwindling the idiocy of our clan. Kill him, Dagon.”

            In a fuzzy mind, all Graham saw were the teeth of the monster biting down.


	4. Cold Snap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle, Graham understood. He knew it, picked it apart, and ate it.

4

* * *

 

_Cold-Snap_

_“Remove wild emotions; put them in a box until after the battle is over.”_

* * *

 

_“You make your largest mistakes in fear, gentlemen. Never forget that!”_

Graham never forgot what Gunnery Sgt. James Rudolph said and never would. That was why he could stare at Dagon in its black eyes with no fear, making no hasty movements. Even peering into the glossy white fangs of the beast as it descended, he made no mistake. With just a tilt of his head, the beast’s jaws slammed into the ground where his head once was, causing a small crater in the ground. Dust and chips of dirt of showered the side of his face as the beast back pedaled from the sudden movement. It and its master stood shocked, both reeling from the impact.

            “Dagon!” Beastmaster cried out. “Kill _him_!”

            The order was the same, but much louder, much more panicked than before. Dagon tried again, this time with its claws. And again, Graham moved his body at the right times. It wasn’t completely reaction time. No. It was a deep set discipline, training under the right conditions. The beast tried viciously to cause mortal wounds, but was rewarded with superficial ones instead. Scrapes here and there lined Graham’s upper shoulders, and even a long slash down the bridge of his nose. No matter what, Graham still drew breath. Frustration of the master seeped into Dagon’s mind, and Graham gave a cold stare. “ _The beast is completely under the man’s control. Its emotions are his. That’s why—“_ Graham dodged another claw. “ _That’s why I can dodge them like I would a human. He doesn’t trust the instincts of the animal.”_

That brought a smile to the soldier’s face. “You’re a pathetic fucker,” he said aloud, as calm as a breeze.

            He didn’t even need to see Beastmaster’s face to know that he was livid. Under the façade of coolness, Beastmaster had a temper. He was as much of an animal as his beast. Outside of battle, he moved majestically, walking through his own personal savanna as the king because he was the predator. But as soon as the tables turned he would grow angry and fierce. Graham heard this in the way his animal growled. Dagon let out a powerful roar before bending back for a strong swipe. That was a mistake and Graham wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip. 

            Graham slammed his right knee into the beast’s rib cage, earning a crunch of a rib. Dagon doubled back in pain, blood oozing out the creature’s mouth, and whining pitifully like a small house cat. It rolled to its feet, taking some more steps back, trotting in almost disbelief.  That gave Graham time, time to slip from underneath the creature’s weight, and jump back to his feet. Now, he could see Beastmaster boiling from a safe distance. _“_ Is there something wrong, bitch?” he asked, mockingly. 

            Graham, hunched over and staring at Beastmaster with those pale eyes, must have been a fearful sight even for a cannibal. Dark red, deoxygenated blood stained his decayed skin. He remained upright.  He balled his fingers into a fist, showing the bone of his index finger. Graham had every intention of punching this man in the face, not just once or twice, but repeatedly. Having a hostage was one thing, eating flesh for the innocent that was a cardinal sin. Where else could a man go after that?

            “Why aren’t you dead yet?” Beastmaster shouted, seething. “Dagon! Kill him!”

            Bound to the man’s orders despite its condition, Dagon charged forward. Graham shook his head. He was too close for a grenade. He could get himself killed in the blast. There were other factors inside of battle. For example, noting the environment held certain perks. In his rage, did Beastmaster forget that they were at a lagoon? Graham took stepped back to the shoreline. Did he notice that Graham didn’t necessarily have to breathe? He had all the weapons that he needed to kill Dagon. Beastmaster’s fear was the last piece that he need, and that was graciously given to him. Dagon pounced, and was unsurprisingly propelled into the water with his prey under him.

            They entered with a large splash. The water around them was dark, warm, and clean for the most part. Fish swam around them, hurrying to avoid the confrontation. Flakes of wood and other flotsam, either from the war or the cannibals, drifted in the purpled waters. There wasn’t a floor to the lake, only abyss.

Graham held his breath, keeping a good grip of Dagon’s head. He twisted the creature’s neck. It wasn’t enough. He fought the beast off for a moment, gaining a free hand. Before he even knew it, he had removed shemaugh from his neck. His fingers and arm did the rest of the work, tightening the cloth around the neck, and twisting it like a lever. The bone on the creature was far too strong to break, but the maneuver did cause the creature to yelp in pain. Or at least try to yelp. The water quickly entered the feline’s mouth, choking it better than Graham could ever could. It went limp in a minute, life sucked from it eyes.

            With a margin of pride, Graham grabbed a tooth from the elongated fangs and tore it from its gums. Blood rose to the surface. Graham stabbed the animal over and over again. This wasn’t an act of cruelty, but persuasion. The Beastmaster—assuming that he couldn’t connect visually with the beast—would think he was dead. If he could, oh well. If he couldn’t, well that would be nice.  Battle was brutal, and he was about to show him how different the two of them were in battle. He swam up to the surface, hand grasped tightly on the fang of Dagon. It was a perfect makeshift knife. Not as good as a KA-BAR, but it would have to do.

            Graham emerged from the water, pulling himself to the surface. His clothes were heavy, but mental anger fueled him. Beastmaster was still a healthy length away, but he could see the eyes of the man getting larger and larger with every step. Apparently, he couldn’t connect optically with the beast—only emotionally. The moment that Dagon’s connection was gone shocked him, but he probably assumed that both were dead. Blood of that volume would convince anyone of that. He was wrong, and Graham was right.

            “How did you--?” Beastmaster mouthed. He knew he had to act and he had to act fast. The charmer sent sharp beaked, mutated ravens soaring towards Graham. _He should have quit._

            Graham dashed towards his target, moving out of the way of their flight lines. A flash of white stabbed each of them. Head, stomach, and their wings had been taken down with almost inhuman like movement. He knew wasn’t quite human, not anymore. His actions knew what he had to do.  He forced himself to think as well. A man couldn’t let his thoughts rule his movement completely. There needs to be some consciousness.  

            A shower of black feathers and pink inners ended the aerial assault. Graham gave one last stab, chopping a long mutated raven in half through the open beak to the tail feather. By the end, his entire body was covered in blood: his own, Dagons, the birds. But there was one that he didn’t have on his palette. He planned to correct that, now.

           

Alas the chance escaped him. Beastmaster was nowhere to be seen.

            “The bastard ran.” Graham couldn’t doubt the man, in retrospect. Proficiency in combat of both the gun and hand to hand stacked the odds in his favor. The master’s power over animals would become irrelevant without said animals. Dagon was probably his favorite, the birds a good secondary. Graham had one weapon, but could use it in a thousand different ways. That weapon would never leave him, until it rested forever. 

            He wiped the entrails of the birds from his body, and let his mind calm. He had to admit, he wasn’t used to not having pure adrenaline running through his body. But something had replaced it, something deadly. It was a calmness that you couldn’t achieve with life pulsing through you. Death stayed with him. It cuddled up beside him, kept him safe with its dark black coat and long scythe. His heart never raced, fatigue didn’t course through his veins. It was too good to be true, it had to come with some sort of—

And he felt it then.

            Graham was hungry. It wasn’t like a normal hunger. His mind and body starved. He fell to his knees, writhing in the abyss of that desire. “What the hell,” he said pushing back the need, only for it to get wider in his attempt. He didn’t want a cooked meal, but something raw, natural, and filled with life. That unnerved him. Why would he want that? That would make him no different than the cannibals. He struggled with the thought a bit more. “You have to survive,” he told himself. Survival had coupled with death as his protectors.

            His mind wandered for a while looking at the dead corpses that Beastmaster’s team was feasting on. He shook his head. He looked to the dismembered bodies of the cannibals. _They were undeserving animals.”_ Graham slammed his fist to the ground. _“Damn, you’re not like them. They don’t deserve that, even though they’re pigs.”_ His fingers graced on one of the black birds, not quite dead. “ Dammit,” he growled. If he didn’t eat something, whatever this blood haze was, this abyss would drive him insane…or kill him.

With resentment, he grabbed the black bird by the tail. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the futile cheeps from the bird. _You have to survive. Don’t think about it._ He took his first bite with a horrible crunching sound as he bit into the large breast of the bird. His teeth, crushed through bone, muscle almost too easily from a man of a human jaw. Layers and layers of the flailing creature fell by the sheer strength of his yellowed teeth. The taste was almost euphoric. The flavor was strong; almost intoxicating unlike any food that had ever settled in his stomach.  He could taste the pulse of the creature in its stringy meat. It was like he was reliving the creature’s life as he crunched through the body. He could feel it fly, the way it moved, the way it lived through his chewing. Nothing was left after he was done.

            He tore through several more, mind ignoring the dead ones for the living ones before none was left. At the end, he sat back, belly full. The growing abyss in his stomach and brain subsided, giving life renewed back to his body. A pang of guilt accompanied him soon after.  He needed life to live. The films never explained that. Maybe because it was fiction and this was Graham’s reality. But he knew, a small part of him knew, that if he didn’t eat he would go mad or die. He didn’t want either of those, especially while people needed him.

 _This is just great,_ he thought getting to his feet. For now he needed to focus. _The hostages, right_. He needed to save them. That would get his mind off that moment, if for a little while.

            Graham scanned the surroundings again. Ragnar would have taken the stone cave at the rim of the lake. He lumbered to the cave, taking small steps at a time, watching his boots. At least his body wasn’t aching. After every battle with his Marines, he would feel incredibly stiff everywhere down to his ass. It wasn’t that bad minus the horrible hunger part. At least he could just move on. It was a good thought, a satisfying one. “Looks like I won’t be getting old, eh, Private,” Graham said grinning.

Private Kingsley always joke him about his age. He never thought that he would miss those men this much.

He made it to the mouth of the cave.  The inside was illuminated by torches in endless rows along the walls. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, dripping clear water on the copper-colored stone in thin rivers that ultimately led back to a clear water pool on the side. High towers of bones and large splatters of dried blood stamped the lair as a cannibal, no _the_ Cannibal’s lair. However, there were some pieces of the resident that felt more like a person lived here instead of a brute.

Wooden bookshelves lined the back wall. Graham went to inspect the literature. There were many classic titles, philosophy text, and an obscene amount of medical books. The bed, fashioned out of wood, straw, and some cotton, was hefty like a giant slept there. Beside it was a rugged nightstand, and upon that was a sculpture of a woman made entirely out of bone. Graham wanted to see more of the sculpture, but the sound of breathing stopped him from doing so.

“Is someone there?” The voice, a young man cried out.

“Juvencio, shut up,” a woman replied, her voice deadpan, almost bored. “If there’s going to be anyone here, they’re going to be here to eat us. Simple fact.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” Juvencio shrilled.

“It’s the truth of the matter; we just need to accept it. Drifter knows we got here on our own and we have to get out on our own.”

“You’re like his main homeslice, though…” Juvencio whimpered.

“I’m replaceable, expendable, and useful to a point. No need to—“

“Plenty of soldiers make that statement, doesn’t make their lives any less valuable.”

The tense breathing and clattering of metal was proof they hadn’t expected a response at all. Graham wheeled around a lofty stalagmite to see an iron cage hanging above a small gulch. Within the cage were two people. A lady sat slumped against the cage, blonde hair tumbling down her neck, head cocked to one side.  Only in cargo pants and a ripped tank top, the woman looked out of place in her majesty. Her pale skin was accented by fierce green eyes, which stared to her companion with a bit of annoyance. 

Her partner, a young frail looking man, stood against the bars of the cage. He pushed his black messy hair from his face, the strands drenched in sweat. That could be said for his entire body in fact. In the rich torchlight, anyone could see that his light brown skin was glistening with perspiration. His dirty brown jumpsuit was equally soaked. He bit his lip noticing Graham for the first time. Gore for his fight with Dagon and meal thereafter still hung from his body. Juvenico’s face told his terrified story.

Juvenico took in a deep breath. “Heron!”

“What?” Heron barked back. “And please stop swinging this cage.”

“You see that?”

“He’s kind of hard to miss.”

“What’s that even? Urgh. Jesus…” Juvencio paced the small cage, rocking it ever so slightly. “We’re gonna be eaten…by…by…that! Why do you have to be right?”

Heron glowered, giving no inkling on whether she was horrorstruck or not. “It could be worse,” she said aside to Juvenico.

“It could be worse?” Juvencio shouted.

“Yes.”

“How in the hell could this be any worse? I’m not seeing the worse in this!”

“’Cause I’m obviously here to help,” Graham interrupted.

“Yo. We can’t trust this dude!” Juvenico said, rocking the cage a bit more. “He just _looks_ like a guy that could eat us!”

Before Graham had experienced the hunger, rebuking the fact would have been easy.  Now, he couldn’t. In fact, even a part of him feared that he would accidently slip. So, he remained quiet, trying to keep the peace with the two captives with amity. “How about this, I’ll get you some weapons. I’ll hand them to you through the cage when I get you down. Then you’ll be armed in case you think that I’m some monster. But I am only here to protect you and get you back to the Drifter. I didn’t fight a group of cannibals just to find a meal.”

“Juv, he has a point,” Heron said, waving off the conversation like it was a bother.

Juvenico pursed his lips. “Fine. But I’m taking those weapons before you let us out.”

“You’re such a pussy,” Heron muttered under her breath.

With a swift nod and a swifter laugh, Graham searched for the control mechanism. His keen eyesight spotted a sight of the small wooden wheel and lever. He jogged towards it, looking carefully. Ragnar had somehow made a pull system. The level was attached to a web of ropes, each to a different cage. The wheel was marked and numbered from left to right according to the positions. Graham took a glance towards the cage that hostages were captive in, and back. “Three,” Graham said aloud, grabbing the handle. He cranked the wheel.

Bit by bit, the third cage sailed across the dark chasm of the cave. The lever and wheel took an immense amount of strength, probably meant for Ragnar himself. Graham was even forced to take a few breaks to make sure he could get them across safely. A few minutes later, the cage made a satisfying clunk as it hovered over a stable piece of land where all the ropes met, the landing area.

“There’s a switch to your left that will descend us,” Heron noted.

Juvenico’s arched an eyebrow. “How’d know that?”

            “Watching. Maybe you should try it sometime.” It’ll give you a break from talking.”

With a flick of an adjacent lever, the cage came crashing down. Heron had enough sense to grab on a bar before it happened. Juvenico, however, had finally let go of bars at the wrong time. He slammed his head against the top of the cage, almost knocking the man unconscious. He stumbled around, holding his head and seeing stars. “Damn…you could have warned me about the fall…”

“Or you could have _watched_ and prepared yourself,” Heron said as mockingly as her flat voice would allow her.

Graham laughed at the witty comment before approaching the black barred cage. He observed it. The lock was sturdy, taking wild precautions to insure security. It would take him a while to pick the locks.  That was if he could pick a lock. He had many skills in his arsenal, but the ‘art’ of lock picking had never been one of them. He clinched his teeth. “Going to get the key.”

 “Not going to happen. Beastmaster and Ragnar are the only ones that possesses one, but don’t worry about it.” Heron shrugged her shoulders, “Just get us our weapons; Juv’s revolver and my sword. Ragnar usually keeps personal items from his captives—or meals whatever he prefers to call them—in a chest. It’s not locked from what I have seen; no one here would touch anything that’s not meat. It’s near his bed— _the large one_.”

“Very observant,” Graham responded, nodding.

“Yeah, how’d you see that from here?” Juvenico turned to his companion, who sighed.

Heron gave a low snicker. “If you stopped panicking for the past few hours, maybe you would’ve seen it too.”

“You don’t have to be a bitch about it,” he whispered.

 _I’m amazed they haven’t killed each other yet._ Graham thought before saying aloud, “Don’t kill each other before I get back.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t be _able_ to kill me, hon.”

There was no rebuttal to her fact, so Graham could only assume that it was true.

            In silence, Graham doubled back to the conclave he had gone to earlier.  At the foot of the bed was a long chest; as messily made as the nightstand. It was made of a nicer wood pine or oak, adorned with lungs of a man. Drawing upon his strength, Graham push the top of the chest open revealing a large content of items. More books, penciled drawings, and a thick leather strapped journal sat in one corner alone. The other side, however, was cramped full of things. Guns, belts, grenades—almost everything for anybody looking for surviving in this cruel world—sat packed within the container.

            “Which ones are yours?” Graham shouted. If someone hadn’t heard him by now, they weren’t going to be a challenge in a battle.

            “The silver broadsword is mine.” She wasn’t shouting, but her voice was clear enough.

            “The Remington Model 1858 is mine, with the red and green ribbon tied to the vintage hilt.”

            “That’s incredibly specific,” Heron remarked.

            “I don’t carry a _sword_ there are probably thousands of revolvers in that barbarian’s chest, chica.”

            Indeed, Juvenico was right. There were probably thousands of revolvers and plenty of other hand pistols within the chest. Only through luck, Graham managed to find the man’s signature piece. Heron’s sword was incredibly easy to find in comparison. The long silver blade sat within the pack of much more modern weapons. The negligible amount of swords and axes that Ragnar had collected was nothing in comparison to the guns. Graham picked her weapon up, experimentally. He wasn’t some swordsmen, but he knew in the right hand, this could probably do some damage. The weight meant he had to carry it with both hands, so he placed Juv’s pistol underneath his belt.

            As much as he wanted to check out the contexts of the journal or the drawings, he decided against it. One, he didn’t have enough time. Two, it was more personal than he needed to know. Getting to know a potential enemy was great, but knowing how they worked personally could be counterproductive. No matter what wrong they’ve done, there was always a person behind it. It was better to keep the enemy as nameless, formless even, as possible. Guilt cripples a man from making the right decision for themselves or others.

            He returned to the two allies in the cage. “As promised,” he placed the sword down, and handed Juvenico his pistol through the thick bars. Juvenico, surprised at the gesture, weighed the gun in each hand and inspected it. “Not sure if I could get that blade within the bars like that.”

            “You don’t need to,” Heron said, pushing Juvenico out of her way. “I have enough…confidence that if you were to do something foolish that I’ll pummel you.”

            “You didn’t pummel Ragnar,” Juvenico mocked.

            “Because you were _such_ a great help,” she retorted quickly, and the small man shrunk back to his normal meekness.

            “Getting out of there’s going to be difficult without—“

            Graham would have finished his sentence, if he hadn’t been interrupted by the screeching sound of metal. Heron had a grip on two of the bars, pulling them apart as though they were butter. When they met another bar, she pushed that one aside too. The hole she made got larger, and larger, and larger until it was large enough for the both of them to walk through without a problem. He arched an eyebrow as the two hopped out of the cage.

            “Why didn’t you do that earlier?” Juvenico asked.

            “We were over a chasm filled with pointy rocks, rushing water, and most likely mutated crocodiles or something. Where _exactly_ would we go?”  Heron said, picking up her broadsword. She clicked the sword back into its sheath already on her back. Ragnar had seen no need to take the harden leather when the blade itself was in his possession. “You need to think things through a bit more.”

            “It’ll help you not get killed,” Graham added.

            “Eh. Whatever…gotta name brother.”

            “David Graham. Marine Corporal before all this happen,” Graham motioned to his body. “Believe me, I’m just trying to figure this all out too.”

            Heron gave him a legitimate facial expression for once, one almost of empathy. “Aren’t we all?”

            “Yeah.” Juvenico wiped the sweat from his brow. “Juvenico Ramos.”

            “Heron.”

            “Your real name, amiga?” Juvenico grinned.

            “No.”

            “You don’t have to tell me anything, but you’re going to have to trust me. I’ll bring you back to Drifter safely. I’m used to having men’s lives in my hands.”

            Heron and Juvenico exchanged looks, engaging in a wordless conversation. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, and narrowing them as they finished. “Some people might think of that in a different way.”  Heron walked passed him, putting her hand on Graham’s shoulder. “No need to be alarmed, men that are used to protecting are also used to taking them. You’ll fit fine in this world.” She began to walk away, long hair fluttering behind her like a cape. “Come, Juv. Let’s go. We don’t want to keep Mr. Graham waiting after all this work he took to get here. Not to mention _who_ he killed to get here.”

            Graham grunted, shaking his head. His eyes settled into a calm expression, eyebrows furrowing as though his entire face went rock solid. “Sometimes it takes killing men to make the world safer.” He could practically see Juvenico shiver at the words. But he meant every bit of it. That was the difference between a sinner and a soldier or a monster and a Marine. More than ever, he needed to make a clear statement of which one what he was, praying that he would never become anything less.

            “Damn….you two are cold as ice,” Juvenico said, slumping his shoulders.

            “Then get a blanket. This isn’t a world for the weak,” Heron’s voice echoed.

            “That’s what the strong are for.  Not preying on the weak, but protect those who can’t protect themselves.” Graham touched his stomach, thinking back to the hunger. “And keeping true to what they are as people.” 

_

Wood always watched these fights from the sidelines. However, he couldn’t say he was bored. He was just biding his time as he watched the firefight escalate into an all-out brawl. Was he worried? Nah, he had better things to do than that. If he cared enough, he would’ve gotten dressed in something other than some forest green pajama bottoms and a tank top. Yet, he wasn’t caring. So instead of battle, he was sitting in his favorite lawn chair, reclining and sipping what he assumed to be poorly made lemonade.

            Ragnar’s team of cannibals, at least a hundred strong, had stormed through the Plagues with a vengeance. More than half of them were gunned down; but the rest were protected by thick oak-forged shields. The ones that were lost were probably pawns in this game because the king on their side hardly seemed worried when they died. They had made it to the main forces, and currently were locked in mini melee fights throughout the camp. They held the nascent hope that they could win this encounter; however, Drifter wasn’t serious. Uncle never was.

            “Unc,” Wood looked towards the old man, who was eyeing the battlefield from afar. “We could just kill them, you know right?”

            Drifter stroked his beard, grinning. “And ruin this perfect chance, my boy? Besides, Heron and Juv hadn’t come back yet with Graham.”

            “How’d you know if they are even going to come back?”

            “I just do, lad.”

            Wood yawned. “So you’re waitin’?

            “Hm,” Drifter shrugged. “Aren’t you?”

            It was a true. Nothing was stopping him from coming down there and destroying their ranks. In an open battle like this with his power, his strength, only Ragnar himself would be enough to stop him. Even that was a gamble. Besides, his mutation was far too dangerous to use around a crowd. Did he exactly care about everyone on the caravan? Not exactly. But, Drifter was watching and he would rather not disappoint his kin.  Besides, he was more than content watching the caravan defend itself with bursts of gun fire, explosions, and a few grenades.

Crisium and Tyrus had easily racked up most of the kills. Crisium was a mutant like himself; though they did not exactly like each other, they respected each other’s ability. She could turn into a wolf; a fearsome mutated one with black and gold fur and horns. She could even breathe fire in that form, so she was more akin to a hellhound. Two-legged or four, she could transform effortlessly into either and often switch forms in mid combat. Watching her in battle was an interesting feat indeed.

Tyrus, though normal in many regards, wield his shotgun with ease. He stood by Crisium. She watched his back when he had to reload. He handled anybody that tried to outflank her. They were a dominant pair in battle. The big man had easily held his weight, and was never bothered that someone was a mutant or a demon—at least on the battlefield. Wood knew that he was deathly afraid of him, but that probably was less of him being a mutant and more for other reasons.

“Have you spotted Ragnar yet?” Drifter asked, ruining Wood’s train of thought.

“Nah.”

“Ya know what that means?” Drifter chuckled.

“Yeah, I know. Want me to do something about it?”

“Hahaha. Nah I think I’ll handle it.”

Almost on cue, a sound of thick boots landed on the hood of their armored RV. The man the boots belonged to stood towering over Drifter and Wood, shadow casting down like a tree. Wood eyed the man from his reclining position. This was Ragnar, nine feet of complete muscled man. A long red beard trickled down his face, with equally red hair dripping from his scalp in tangled hemps. His pointed yellow teeth grinned, yet hazel eyes showed no such amusement. He held his battleaxe on his back, thick chiseled finger impatiently looking at Drifter.

“So, we meet again,” Drifter said, pushing his broken eyeglasses on his face. “You owe me ‘nother pair of glasses. It’s hard for an old man to see, ya know.”

Even in the poor light, Wood could see Ragnar’s pale face set aflame with anger. Last time they fought, Ragnar had left with scars, blood oozing from every pore almost. Drifter had just lost a lens on his only pair of glasses. 

“Drifter,” Ragnar roared, slamming his battleaxe on the hood. “You’ve wronged me” Wood always hated this man’s voice; it sounded like a broken truck engine in a wood grinder. The heavy clunks of his truck tire and scrap metal armor rattled in the night. “This is checkmate. Checking a king with a king is unparalleled, I know. But it is a satisfying victory nevertheless.”

Wood prepared himself to get up, but was barred from completely doing so by Drifter’s cane. “No no, Wood. I don’t want you to get involved. Not yet. I want to see how this man works. What makes him tick, and has it improved.” Drifter gave his own cynical expression, which instantly made Wood recline back. The old man was in that mode again, the mode of battle.

“Well…what are you waitin’ for Ragnar? You can’t take a piece by standing on your square! Ha ha ha ha!”    

            As usual, Ragnar fell for the goading and it would inevitably lead to his defeat. So, Wood went back to his lemonade. _This needs more sugar_ , he thought as the battle between the two leaders began.


	5. Trust Me or Trust Nobody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bud of distrust lingers in the back of Graham's mind. He wasn't like this before. What changed?

5

_Trust Me or Trust Nobody_

* * *

 

_“Trust is something earned. You’re going to have to take a risk._

_You don’t have a choice, not many on the battlefield do. “_

* * *

 

They had made it out of the Plagues. Heron had figured, and guessed correctly, that Ragnar and his pack had fashioned a safer way out of the poisonous forest for their own wellbeing. A large tunnel was crafted out of the back in of the cave, over the chasm they had saw earlier, and out to the back end to clean air. More than likely the tunnel and the foresting of the back end of the cave was something done by slaves or peons. Hundreds or maybe thousands of lives were probably captured and slaved for this safety, this luxury. But Graham didn’t want to think about it. But then again, what did he want to think about?

            The three set up camp as soon as they were a good length away. Heron and Juvenico insisted that this should be done, despite Graham informing them of Ragnar’s assault. They didn’t seem too worried.  In fact, they seemed to disregard the fact altogether. Besides, Heron wanted to discuss some things with a more level-headed and calm Juvenico.

Graham saw them whispering across the crackling flame of the campsite. He respected their privacy; they, in turn, respected his as he sat almost naked against the flame. His clothes were soaked from the dive in the lagoon, and they slowed him down. If they were to get into another battle, he would be burdened by the restricted movement. But, the downside, it exposed himself to the reality that he was struggling with in his mind. As many upsides that this condition had, emotionally he had been repressing what he really felt. The fear. It was the fear they felt when they saw him.  That fear had extended to him. He was afraid, maybe not of what he was but what he may do.

            And the whispering of his new comrades put an unsettling feeling in his gut.

            He had known that he was the topic of their whispering by the way they spoke. They might have trusted him to an extent, but trust wasn’t something given too easily nowadays. No. He hadn’t told them about the hunger. That would only exasperate the issue. But, he did notice the way they looked at him. Heron might have been proactive on his accompany, but like Crisium, they had their own way of showing their mistrust. Drifter and Wood had been the only people that didn’t show that. The former was easily because of his potential. The latter, well, Graham was unsure how Wood worked. However, he couldn’t say that he felt welcomed anywhere. In fact, he felt lonely.

            Lonely. He hated that word with a fiery passion. It was a silly emotion. That’s what he told himself constantly when he was alone, anyway. Yet it was a real life thing. Even surrounded with strangers, nothing could make you feel more empowered than the company of a few friends. It was tough to handle. Yet, a part of him didn’t want to get close, scared to get close. Graham touched the cold, wet flesh of his body, feeling its odd temperature in his half-dead nerve. No matter how acclaimed, how honorable he was. No one would trust him, even if he cracked the sky open to heaven for them. Maybe he didn’t deserve the trust, somehow.

            “I know what you’re thinking.” Juvenico cleared his throat after saying that. The dark skinned man shook his head, staring at Graham for the first time. “I gave you a hard time, amigo. I’m just…I just…”

            Heron rolled her eyes. “You understand our mistrust. But, he had no right to treat you any less than our savior.”

            “Ey, don’t blame this all on me.”

            “Be quiet and let adults talk.” She paused to allow Juvenico to grumble. “We never properly thanked you. Instead, we threw our defenses up. I’m not expecting you to forgive us for that. Forgiveness isn’t something I want. But I do want to make known that you did us a service. Beastmaster fled. You fought off men and women to get to us. That deserves something.” She looked away. “If Drifter trusted you—“she sighed.

            “Look who’s getting their words mixed up now. English ain’t even my first language, chickadee,” Juvenico mocked.

            “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to stomp your gut in,” Heron snapped, earning a laugh from Graham. “If Drifter can trust you, we can too. Just…don’t make me regret it.”

            Graham grinned, running his fingers against the bristles of his hair. “I’m not used to this,” he laughed. “I guess I’m greedy.” They waited for an explanation. Graham had to wade through the thoughts first.  “My father didn’t know how to love quite right. He tried his best on his own. When I joined the Marine Corps, that was the first time I’ve ever saw him smile.” Even in the back corner of the haze of memories, he could see his father’s face gleam with pride. “So I guess I’m addicted to that proudness, that admiration.” He gave a thick exhale, grabbing for his pants and pulling them on despite the enduring wetness.

            “I’m used to handling trust. Trust is what I had with my men. It was how I was taught and how I taught people on the battlefield. Men respected me. I respected them. Everyone was strong, but not equal in strength. So, I was used to carrying the load. Now…all that I have felt, all the selfish pride that I felt is gone.” He growled unsure of what to say next. “Now, I can’t trust anyone or trust myself. This isn’t how anyone is supposed to live.”

            It was that moment where he realized how angry this situation had truly made him.

            Heron moved her hair from her face, and walked over. The blasé expression that naturally adorned her features hardly ever changed. Graham saw a difference this time around. She was looking at him, not through him. She tilted her head. “Despite it all, you still felt the need to tell us that.” She watched in amusement as Graham opened his mouth to speak, but the words retreated back on his tongue. “You probably met hundreds of men during your time, and they had faith in trusting a person they never met. That was a luxury, no different than a fine car or a mink coat. Now you are put into a situation where your allies are people that you can’t exactly trust,” she paused looking at him, “and can’t exactly trust you on sight. You have to get over that. This world isn’t nice, but when was it ever…Mr. Marine?”

            She turned on her heels, facing Juvenico. “Let’s go, Juv. Put out the fire.”

            Juvenico did as he was told, smothering the flame with dirt. Graham, in the meantime, donned the rest of his clothing and prepared himself.

            “How do we know that Drifter isn’t having a hard time?” Juvenico asked, dusting the dirt from his shirt.

            Heron didn’t respond at first. She just scowled. Only a few hours knowing her, Graham knew that was her go-to facial expression when she made one. “You really think Drifter is having a time with Crisium, Tyrus, and Wood there. Even without me, the’re strong…” Heron folded her arms. “Besides, he has a new recruit that appears to be pretty strong himself.”

            Juvenico shrugged. “Well, I guess you have a point. Graham.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Do you have any weapon on you? I mean when we saw you didn’t and I doubt you’ve taken all those men and Beastmaster with your fist.” Juvenico inspected closer to make sure that he didn’t miss some concealed weapon. All he could see was the explosives and some remaining rounds.

            “Lost my weapon to that cat, crushed it to a pulp. Had to improvise.”

            “Dagon. That was a bobcat at one time, do you believe that shit? Whatever Beastmaster does to his animals, it ain’t good. Did you waste him?”

            “No,” Graham recalled the fight; he made his escape pretty cleanly. “He escaped through the caves or used one of his animals to get away. Can’t worry about him right now.”

            “Right. Right.” Juvenico frowned. “Are you going to need a weapon?” He tapped on the holster of his revolver, “I mean I could, maybe, might let you borrow mine.”

            “Nice offer, but no. You’re fine. Don’t feel the need to make it up to me. Besides, that’s your weapon, so it’s your skill with it that we need.”

            “I don’t know about that,” Heron said, mumbling loud enough for Juvenico to hear. The hispanic man grumbled an inaudible curse in response. These two were like siblings or a married couple. That was usually the case with people that worked together all the time, Graham knew.

            “You’re proficient with your weapon, in theory,” Graham added, making Juvenico growl a bit louder. “And I’m proficient with mine.”

            “And what weapon is that?”

            Pride swelled up in Graham’s chest, forcing him to push back some of the emotion to speak. “One mind, any weapon,” he quoted simply, stretching his arms. “I’m the best weapon that I have, and I’m going to use it.”

            Juvenico suddenly fell quiet, as he looked to Heron and Graham. Graham could see it in his face. He already felt like the weakest link. “Do—“he paused. “You think you can teach me a thing or two if we survive this? I mean you look strong and….dammit. We might not got off on a good foot, but—“

            “No need to explain yourself. You want to be strong and…you have a chip on your shoulder. Best kind of motivation,” Graham explained.

Heron, knowing that she was that said chip, tossed her hair to the other side of her neck. She was ruthless and knew how to make people mad in all different types of ways. Graham had already been on the receiving end of her attitude more than once. She scorned with a purpose, a reason like a drill instructor. The type of person that would push every button to see you either explode or rocket to the sky. _She’s a bitch on purpose_ , Graham realized, but kept it to himself.

“But one step at a time, we don’t know Drifter’s situation and we have to assume the worse despite the confidence you may have.”

“Good advice,” Juvenico responded.

Heron, impatiently tapping her foot, bit her lower lip in irritation. “So are we going to keep standing around doing nothing?”

“’cause the old man might be dying or something,” Graham asked, receiving an annoyed sigh from the woman.

“No. I’m just bored as hell and Drifter might be too.”

_

Smoke billowed from the campsites, but it wasn’t of the vehicles. Oil and gas didn’t produce the pungent aroma that lit Graham’s keen senses aflame. No, only blood could do that. That metallic scent that stung the air, carrying along with it burnt flesh and life. Graham could see now. The caravans were fine, but Ragnar’s pack was nothing more than hemps of bones, piles of meat, and lifeless corpses.

            The opposing force was practically non-existent. Remaining members of Ragnar’s cannibals was being mopped up with the effectiveness of an experienced janitor in a high school cafeteria.  There were a few scrimmages of the most loyal followers of the pack, but nothing the lower members of the caravan couldn’t handle. But those fights were unimportant, irrelevant to the last one that people gathered around to see.

            Heron flipped her hair, lips pursed together angrily. “We showed up too late.”

            Juvenico put his hand in his pocket.  “Not that we could have helped much. Looks like we haven’t missed the main event, eh?”

            The crowd of Drifter’s men had rallied around the main caravan. Upon the large armored vehicle stood Drifter and what Graham assumed to be the leader of this ambush, the infamous Ragnar. _Holy shit, that’s a man,_ Graham thought. An over nine-foot muscle-bound monster stood across from Drifter. 

            Foam oozed from the corner of Ragnar’s mouth, down his beard and neck. His red hair masked the death-stare from his sunken hazel eyes. His yellowed teeth gritted against each other, back and forth like a saw. The large man gripped his battleaxe, made up of a tire axle and some scrap metal, with a new vigor. Sweat dripped from his brow. Bruises, bright purple and already leaking pus, were ripe on his entire body.  Anyone would think that he was the one that supposed to be winning, not the smaller old man with just a cane in hand. They would be wrong. No one in the caravan seemed worried about the physical mismatch. No. It was more like they were cheering.

            Graham, Heron, and Juvenico approached the throng, standing beside Tyrus and a half-naked Crisium. The latter was cleaning herself with a towel. “’bout time you showed up,” Crisium said. “I was thinkin’ that I didn’t have to handle your shit any more Juv.”

            “Not going to kill me that early, Cris.”

            “So…is the Drifter done with his little game yet,” Heron said, yawning. “I wouldn’t mind a nap if I’m not going to get some action.”

            “That’s your fault, sweetie, for gettin’ captured in the first place,” Tyrus commented, stretching his big arms. 

            Heron turned with the half-mind to slap the big man in the face. She ultimately decided against it. “It could have happened to anyone.”

            “Indeed it could.”

            “Anyone with Juvenico,” she added.

            “Aw. You had to go there, didn’t you?”

            What surprised Graham most about this conversation was that everyone was so casual.  Their leader, an elderly man, was in a battle with this super brute. Yet they showed no concern. It was like they were watching a boxing match instead of a fight to the death.

            Graham craned his neck up to Drifter, who stood with his cane watching Ragnar. The old man looked over his glasses, amusingly. “Lad, are you gonna sit there all day plotting your next move?”

            Ragnar swung his axe, aiming to lop off Drifter’s head. The blade was easily parried by the thick cane, which didn’t even move from the incredible force. _It’s made of something other than just wood_. It had to be something that was harder than metal, because not even a scratch was on it from the heavy battle axe. Graham looked closer; Drifter also knew—either through instinct or through knowledge—how to block. It reminded him of how a medieval soldier blocked with a buckler. The success of that fighting style was winning a good defense for him and great frustration to Ragnar.

            Over and over, Ragnar tried to attack his foe. Nothing, no matter where he aimed or what angle he attacked from, Drifter would either block or dance away. Ragnar had excellent perception skills on prediction, but not as good as the old man. Even with his superior strength and speed, there was nothing he could do. And that was killing his attack plans, contaminating them with wasted movements. Each mistake was countered with a swift strike from the cane; which Graham had no doubt could have broken bones on normal men. Alas, the muscled hide and make-shift armor of Ragnar had protected him from walking away with a limp arm or shattered leg.

            They kept the melee fight on for minutes almost: dodge here, strike there, new attack patterns. All of them were in Drifter’s favor and none in the challenger’s.

            “Drifter!” Heron cried out, as the two men broke away from their battle. Ragnar was too busy huffing to continue on to his next attack. 

            Drifter’s eyes darted to the corners of their sockets. “Ahhh, my little Heron has flown back from her flight. How were the Plagues, dear?”

            “Not the best experience….”

            “Didn’t clip a wing?”

            “No.”

            “Didn’t hurt your beak?”

            “Fuck you, Drifter.”

            “Now was that nice?”

            Ragnar, trying to take advantage of Drifter’s relaxed conversation, vaulted his battleaxe for a powerful overhead attack. He came down with all of his strength. Singing of steel against the cane flew into the air, followed by silence. “An effortless block”, everyone seemed to say with their eyes. One set of eyes changed. Drifter’s playful glance dissipated into smoke. Everyone, even Graham impulsively, stiffened at the change in demeanor. Authority was in those eyes. Power.  “I’m bored with you, Ragnar,” he said, coldly. A silver pistol was in his free hand now.  No one was sure how it got there.  “I can’t bring back what you lost.” He clicked the safety off. “But I can take more.”

            “No…” Ragnar seethed. “You will not take any more from me!”

            A cold ire remained in those blue eyes as he said:  “I’m done with you. Killing you like this,” he shot at the man, missing his head on purpose, “might be a little too easy.” A plastic thin veneer of madness stretched across his face, fear settling in Ragnar’s.  He lowered his gun. “Scared of guns boy.  Then I won’t kill you like that.” He had other plans, something far more enjoyable. “Wood.” Wood, whom was reclining and munching steadily on a box of granola bars, sat up for the first time. “Your parents are home.”

            The statement didn’t make sense to Graham, but everyone else seems to go silent.

            Wood stood up, face twisted in a sudden angered expression. The upper parts of his shoulder blades rippled underneath his flesh. Parts of his flesh were torn away from his body to make room for a grotesque black carapace to grow across his body.  His fingers and toes turned to three pronged claws right before Graham and Ragnar’s eyes. His limbs snapped back, face contorted, and tongue grew long unable to stay in the mouth. What was left of his skin turned green and became scaled. Amber silted eyes stirred in his skulls searching for a target. A monster, some hybrid of a lizard and an insect, stood in Wood’s place, hulking. _It’s a command. A fucking command…_  

Drifter, pleased, stepped aside.

            Graham couldn’t even comprehend what happened next. One moment, Wood (if he could even call the creature that) was a good length away from Ragnar. The next instant Ragnar was sprawling towards the edge of the RV, skin torn asunder by the black chitins of Wood’s sudden savagery. The creature, fangs long and sharp, snapped at its prey. Ragnar couldn’t even grasp his axe long enough to mount an offense. Instead, he was focusing on survival as Drifter’s unleashed beast tore at him.

            Ragnar backpedaled away, trying to dodge the attacks. He wasn’t swift enough. Wood’s wild claws attacked his already bruised skin. A few times, Wood had even leaped up with his bent legs to scratch at Ragnar’s face. One particular time caught him right between the eyes. Howling of pain told everyone that the claws were hot tongs to the face. The skin on Ragnar’s face bubbled after being caught, blood spraying madly across his eyes.

It wasn’t long after that he fell completely off the edge of the roof, face first, and covered in blood. Ragnar scrambled to his feet, despite the pain, and darted in the direction of the Plagues. Even then, he wasn’t safe.  Wood, even from a distance, was dangerous. He belched green liquid from his mouth, shooting towards the escaping Ragnar. A few spray slammed into pieces of car part armor, dissolving it, forcing Ragnar to both run and tear the scraps off before it reached his skin.

            The giant soon escaped into the distance with his life barely in his hand.

            Graham looked at Wood from the ground level. The monster curled up beside Drifter, drooling acid from his mouth onto the hood of the roof. His long tongue swept back and forth on the metal, those spine-chilling eyes searching back and forth for something else to kill. Never once did he look at Drifter with such consideration. Instead, when he did look at him, the stare was much like a young boy waiting for permission from his father. Drifter smiled at him. “It’s okay now, Wood. Your parents have gone to work.”

            Wood hunched over. His mutation receded slowly, parts of him becoming human. Drifter gave him a one arm hug, allowing him to get to his feet. “That’s my boy,” Drifter said, patting him on the back.

            No one else said anything, but Graham could feel it. Blood was frozen in veins all around him. Even himself, tempered to adverse conditions, was almost petrified. Drifter picked up on it, grinning. “Welcome back, Corporal Graham!” He stretched his arms out as though he was giving a large hug to the crowd. “Welcome, welcome, welcome! And fantastic job everyone for driving them off!”

            The sound of the Drifter’s mad laugh whistled through the air. Swiftly followed it were the cheers from the entire Caravan.

            _The world is mad. Hell. I’m going mad,_ Graham thought.

_

Ragnar touched the bridge of his nose, blood still oozing from his burnt open wound. The red liquid pattered on the ground like rain. He liked the rain, it was nice. When was the last time it rained in this god forsaken part of the world? Maybe he could bring the rain. Maybe with blood, he liked blood as much as he liked rain. The very thought sent tingles down his spine. He needed something to deal with this anger that tore through him.

            He stumbled back into the backside of the Plague, limping through the corridor. Yes. He was very angry that he lost to the Drifter. He had expected the caravan to be short of Crisium and maybe Tyrus. They were two of the best trackers that he had in his possession. No one, and Ragnar meant no one, else could have been sent through the Plagues and survived. The tactical advantage was perfect and Beastmaster could have easily handled Crisium and Tyrus. What the hell went wrong? Heron and Juvenico shouldn’t have come back. 

            Heaving heavy exhales, Ragnar entered the cavern that served as his bedroom. He removed what was left of his armor and his boots, tossing them with a large clatter on the cave floor. Then just stood, axe in hand, seething angrily at his lack of success. _He’ll pay one day_ , _everyone is going to pay one day_ , he thought. Breathing became loud and heavier in his lungs with the thought of ripping their heads off their shoulders.

            “OOOH! Raggy’s home!!!”

            Ragnar frowned. That voice, he knew that voice. He craned his neck. 

            Sitting cross-legged on his gigantic bed was a smaller woman of an almost girl-like height even to a normal man. Her bluish-black hair tumbled down her back in pig tails. Her face was also very childish with round eyes, small chin, and very light skin. Ragnar saw that this girl seemed oddly out of place in this world. She dressed in a short colorful skirt, black shirt, a pink sweat shirt wrapped around her waist, and simple black shoes. In the other world, she would just look quirky. In this world, it was unsettling how she looked like a teenager where everyone else dressed for practicality.

She had a smile on her face with an open book in her lap. Ragnar quickly recognized that book as his personal journal and growled. “River—“he said between clinched teeth. “What. Are. You. _Doing_?!?”

            River, the small girl, giggled madly. “Raggy, I didn’t expect you to come home this soon!” Her high voice squealed in amusement. “And you are a mess,” she sung. “Come over here!”

            Ragnar walked over, not because she told him to. He did so to snatch his journal away. _Just cut her head off,_ he thought with his axe in one hand. _Cut it off and be done with it._

            “Oh silly. I was just _looking._ You draw pretty well.” She chuckled again.

            “What are you here for,” Ragnar roared. The yelling had no effect on River. An opposite effect happened. She went into a small 

            “Someone missed snack time.” River shrugged, happily. “Good thing I’m a good guest!”

            River hopped off the bed, and skipped to a corner of the room. Like she was some Vegas show girl, River stretched her arms as wide as she could to present her present: a man tied up, covered in scars. The man was shivering in fear, already broken beyond repair. “I give you, dinner!’ The gagged man gave out a muffled cry. “Silly, you won’t even feel it!”  She smiled at Ragnar.  “But first,” she put her finger up, “you have to come here.” An over exaggerated pout slid on her face, one of her many mask. “No complaining.”

            Ragnar gritted his teeth, approaching the young girl half his size. “You’re so TALL, Raggy! Kneel down silly, you’re like…” She struggled with the word in her head, instead leaning on abstract hand motions. “Like a giraffe!”

            “That’s very eloquent,” Ragnar remarked, bending down.

            “Not everyone was a doctor! Now, close your eyes!”

            “Alright.” Again, Ragnar did as he was told. This time he wasn’t sure why. _Just deal with her. She’s here for a reason._

            Unexpectedly, River began licking the blood off the man’s face. She had to step on her tip-toes to do it, but she managed. The warm muscle of her tongue caressed his face, being ever so careful of his prickly beard. There were times where her tongue just stayed in one place. Those lengths of time were even inappropriate for a person licking candy. But she enjoyed it. She enjoyed the liquid on her tongue as much as he liked muscles in his teeth. “I’m done! You can open your eyes now.”

            “Now, what’re you here for,” Ragnar said, wiping some of the saliva from his face.

            “Oh!” River scratched the back of her head, as though she struggled to remember. “OH! I was here to tell you about Mr. Zombieface.”

            “Mr. Zombieface?”

            “Mr. Zombieface!” she repeated. “I was minding my own business in your territory and I saw them fight.”

            “Saw who fight?”

            “Your men and Mr. Zombieface, of course! Aren’t you listening?” River slapped him on the ears. “Hello! Are they working?”

            “They’re _working_!”

He pushed the taunting aside. Thinking about it, he did see a new face in that crowd that resembled something odd. Ragnar quickly recalled that face in the crowd with the others. There was a corpse like figure new to Drifter’s group. But, he was too far in a blind haze to realize that he might have had something to do with this. He scratched his beard, thinking of how one man could take some of his best men and Beastmaster. He had to be trained well. Not some sort of makeshift training that anyone could learn nowadays. “Do you know anything about him?”

            “Hm. No. He’s interesting, though,” River said, hopping happily to her own mental music. “But he’s the one that let swan-lady and Texas hold-up man go.”

            “Herons and swans are two different animals, River.”

            “Soooo!” She pretended to push the fact away. “He’s the one that screwed up your plans. Thought you should know!”

            “I’m going to kill him.”

            “If you do kill him,” River tilted her head, “can I lick his bones clean?” She lost herself in a fit of laughter. Ragnar waited patiently for it to subside. “I’ll go watch him for you. I’ll come back with a name and information of some sort! Maybe his favorite animal. Some sort of hobby. His favorite color—”

            “Why are you helping me?” he interrupted sternly. Ragnar knew that he couldn’t trust River.  Many who had come in contact with her gave her trust equal to a grain of salt. Those that didn’t were either dead or regretted it later. Thusly, he avoided as much contact with her as possible. “You aren’t exactly the most dependable person.” Parts of him wish that he could kill her for being the anti-thesis of a dependable person. She had information, and was going to get more.

            “I’m not asking for you to trust me!” River’s face went deadpan for a moment. “That would be stupid.” She rearranged her features again. “But I’ll say this; I get a kick out of it. _You_ get another notch on your revenge belt, _everyone’s_ happy.” She twirled around, armed stretched to the ceiling, to make her point. She stopped perfectly on her heels, albeit a little dizzy.

            Ragnar knew that he didn’t have much of a choice. If Drifter had a new and deadly weapon, he needed to know about it. “Deal for now.”

            “Yay! I’ll be back later with some information!”

            The deal set, River disappeared into the shadows of the caves, sounds of her skipping echoing in the distance.

He did know one thing about River. Ragnar hated that girl.


	6. Incubus' Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the battle showed an amazing efficiency from the leader and its people. It amazed Graham on how quickly people adapted.

**_6_ **

* * *

 

_The Incubus’ Sleep_

_“History had told us once that men’s nightmares and horrors were caused by demons named the Incubus. The Incubus was known for paralyzing and exposing us in our sleep.  Those people who believed in them weren’t far off. Thoughts are the closest things to demons in our head.”_

* * *

 

 

Graham underestimated the efficiency of the Drifter. He knew now, that this was a mistake.

            The Caravan had been up and running after the ambush in mere hours. The vehicles and people easily returned to their standard duties and formations. Work was continuing within those hours. Engineers, weapon specialist, machinist, and medics were scurrying around the camp, helping anyone that needed their specific expertise. The swiftness of the executions was amazing. Injured parties were handled in several vehicles to the north, repairing services to the south, and everything else was carried in between. 

            At the end of about three hours of preparation, roars of the engines hummed through the air. They were on their way. To where, Graham didn’t have a clue. Ultimately, he decided to stay.

            Per his request, Graham stationed himself within one of the Humvees. He felt the most comfortable in that setting and even reclined back a bit like old times. His driver was Raleigh, the man that he met earlier who gave him and the Drifter information on Heron’s and Juvenico’s disappearance. Graham now knew that this man was also the Quartermaster of the Caravan. Though not the brightest man, from the stories of the Caravan, he handled weapons and vehicles with deft efficiency.  Once out of those fields, he lumbered through life as though he was an oversized bear balancing on a beach ball. But overall he seemed pretty nice, reserved but nice.

            Raleigh kept his eyes on the road most of the time. However, he would occasionally steal a glance. It was obvious that he was still uncomfortable. That could be said for most of the Caravan honestly. But they knew that he was relatively good. Besides, Graham had gotten in good favors with the Drifter. They couldn’t deny that. He felt as though he was the hero of a small kingdom; everyone might not trust you, but they couldn’t deny that you slayed a dragon for them. Still, Graham found the need to at least ease himself into the crowd. Making enemies didn’t seem to be the smart thing to do in this world.

            Graham watched Raleigh itch at the thick bandage on shoulder. “Don’t do that,” Graham warned. “It’ll make it worse.”

            “I can’t help it,” Raleigh grumbled.

            “What happened? Sure you don’t want me to drive?”

            The blonde haired, thickly shouldered man shook his head. “Nah…” he paused, before adding in a mutter, “Driving and inventory’s all I’m good at.”

            Graham bounced as they drove over a large bump in road. “You’re not going to get any better by avoiding it.”

            The driver looked at the road, then at his passenger. Words formed on his lips, never leaving. Raleigh’s brow furrowed thinking about what he would say next.  “Got caught by an axe, as all. I always get injured. I’m fucking useless.”

            “What’d you do before—“Graham searched his mind for the word. “What’d you do before this?”

            Raleigh went silent for a moment. “Mechanic and gunsmith, it was the family business.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah, just got used to doing it…” Raleigh gripped the steering wheel harder. “I heard that you were a Marine.” He pursed his lips, realizing that it sounded worse than he meant.

_Was,_ _I “was” a Marine. What am I now?_ “Yeah. Been that way since I was eighteen, never been too great at anything else,” Graham nodded at his foggy memory. “You’re not that used to battle, aren’t you?”

            Graham felt an odd increase in speed, Raleigh’s foot heavy. The vehicle slowed after a few seconds. His action received a brief scolding from Crisium over the radio. Raleigh drank in the verbal attack without even a murmur.  

But, Graham had received his answer. It was solid yes. The large fellow muttered incomprehensibly as he tried to come to terms with what to say next.  Raleigh reminded him of Hacke, Private First Class Abraham Hacke. An Alabama born man, Abraham always grumbled and was more than his share of clumsy outside of battle. The man could barely hold a can of soda without dropping it all over his uniform. When battle came around, he was more focused and stronger than any man that he could ever think of. Fondly, Graham smiled at the thought. His memories weren’t as clear as he wanted, but things were coming back. Maybe, Raleigh needed to focus as well.

            “How about I teach you a few things?

            Again, the vehicle fluctuated speed, this time lowering. “W-what?”

            “I’ll teach you a few things. No. I’ll train you like a Marine.”

            Raleigh’s eyes widened as he absorbed the thought.

            “You won’t be alone, of course. I’ll recruit a few who feels that they’re slacking in comparison.”

            “But I don’t have any special powers or mutations—”

            “Don’t give me that excuse again, or I’m going to punch you,” Graham interrupted, suddenly slipping into his stoic, authoritative voice. However, he forgot the added gravel of his tone. So the next reaction was Raleigh breaking out into a sweat as he pursed his lips and focused on the road. Graham put down a mental note. If he was really going to train some of the men and women, that was going to be a real good tool. A living, breathing, drill instructor was already effective, how great would a dead one be? “You don’t need superpowers or—unfortunate mutations—to protect what you want.”

            Raleigh nodded in response.

            “You just have to have that motivation. If you really want this, I can hammer it into you. How about it? Tired of being useless.”

            Raleigh weighed the options in his head for a while, before bursting out in a grin. “Y-yeah—I can do that.”

            Graham reclined in his seat, a smile on his grim face. Raleigh wouldn’t be grinning when the actual training started. “So,” he said, offering a change in topic, “where’re we going?’

            “A place called the bone…the bone somethin’—“Raleigh grabbed the radio, underneath his wheel. “Crisium—“

            “Yes, Raleigh, whaddya want?” the radio crackled in.

            “What’s the name of the place we’re headin’ to?”

            “The Boneyard, idiot.”

            “Where was that in the normal states of our country?” Graham asked. Raleigh repeated the question to Crisium. It took her a good five minutes to respond back.

            “Georgia. Drifter has gotten some information on somethin’ there. Something big. Maybe a lead.”

            “Thanks, Graham wanted to know,” Raleigh explained.

            “Good, if you just were askin’ to be askin’, I was gonna to kick you in the balls.”

            Raleigh put the radio down, carefully as though she was going to reach through the speaker and do just that. Simply put, a swift kick to a man’s soft spot brought a man down. Raleigh must have been on the receiving end of such brutality by Crisium.  “So we’re going to Georgia,” he said awkwardly. “It’s not long from here, maybe a day or two if we stop a few times.”

            “Good. Good,” Graham mentally sorting his thoughts, “Where does Drifter receive information from?”

            “Plenty of people.”

            “Well that’s specific. Does he tell you where he gets this information?”

            Raleigh shook his head. “A few times, he has told us. We tend not to get too nosey, you know. Especially with Wood around…”

            Before, Graham couldn’t see why people were scared of Wood. Their reasoning seemed justified now. That form was nothing less than something you would see out of a nightmare. The hulking creature was almost imprinted in his mind, sitting by his equally dangerous master. Drifter sent out a command, and Wood attacked without question. Funnily enough, Graham was used to seeing people take orders, but not like that. In no way did Graham think Ragnar should live especially after viewing his clan’s cannibalism. Drifter, though, took it to the next level. Wood was like sending a pet tiger to maul an annoying neighbor.

            The worst part about all of this was that Graham felt that it was necessary. Drifter had enemies. Enemies got you killed. Killing enemies was a part of life. It was their life or yours. Graham snapped himself out of the grim thought. “Any other reasons you guys afraid of Wood….besides the spitting acid, lizard-beetle thing?”

            Gulping and staring at the road as though it was an exit, Raleigh whispered, “It’s not what he turns into that bothers us. It’s what he did before.”

_

The Caravan had stopped for a late afternoon dinner. The red sky above them had dimmed down to a deep sanguine color, and the sun teetered on the edge of the horizon. Members of the moving metropolis, at least a hundred or more strong, had dispersed into several smaller groups both in and out of the vehicles. Families and friends gathered around fires, while appointed guards circled the dusty grounds.

            Graham helped Raleigh with fitting the guards before getting himself better equipped. Raleigh had scavenged him a digital combat uniform; complete with an assault vest, various pouches, knee pads, gloves, and desert tan boots. When it came to weapons, he was almost in heaven with choices. A few of the guns weren’t in the best condition, but he had managed to find decent conditioned M249 SAW. That pleased him more than anything. He pocketed equipment from flash bangs, smokes grenades, and a knife to his stock pile of grenades he had acquired earlier. _All of this must have come from our armory._

            Yet for the first time since his awakening, he felt like he could truly mess some things up.

            He cracked his neck, pleased with the weight that he had on him. “Hey Raleigh.”

            “Umhm,” the large man said, distractingly. He had been counting the equipment from the Marine Base. If he broke away for a second, he’ll forget what he was doing.

            “Going to step out for a moment, gotta talk with someone.”

            “’kay.” Raleigh waved him off, and Graham left him to his work.

            Graham stepped out into the main circle of the camp, receiving a much better reception than before. A man in a uniform, dead or no, was a welcomed extra protection. Well, at least until night time came along. Graham’s eyes wandered. Drifter was sitting around the largest fire, with Heron at his side, but Wood was nowhere to be found.  Only one option remained, he was still in the RV. They were going to have that talk, like he promised. It might not be any of his damn business. But, he needed to understand. That was the fundamentals of a team, a unit, a squad, a band.

            With defiant steps, Graham approached Drifter’s Caravan. A few of the guards peered heedfully at him, almost as though he was insane. He knocked on the door. Then again. Then again. This continued until finally, the scrawny, tall man loomed over him. He was surprisingly better presented this time—the closest idea of formal he could get. The long blue jeans and large tank top drooped over the sleepy eyed beast as though he was wearing curtains instead of clothes. “Ah,” Wood exhaled, “Uncle told me you were coming by.”

            “I figured that you wouldn’t have gotten dressed otherwise.”

            Wood gave a weak laugh, “Hell no. So, are we going to get this over with or not?”

            Graham shook his head as he followed the wiry man into the door. Wood was only a few steps in before he plopped down on the floor, underneath the counter, his toe nails digging into the already chipped cabinets. Beside that spot were bottles upon bottles of beer, all empty and all scattered on the floor. There were at least twenty or more, yet he didn’t look drunk, hardly even buzzed. The stench of the beer on his lips was the only thing that made it clear it was him drinking in the first place.

            “But, really, what do you want?”

            The words were sharp, but they had no effect on Graham. He just scowled. “You have an entire Caravan frozen with fear. That deserves some clarity.”

            “You saw what I turn into. You think they are going to invite that to dinner? I thought I was the one drinking.” Wood guzzled down half a bottle. “You think that people want me around? No. And I don’t care. All I care about is my Uncle, that’s all I need.”

            “So what are you to him, some sort of pet?” Graham questioned.

            Wood gave a laugh, the corners of his mouth morphing into a twisted and toothy smile. “A pet is accepted and loved. Why would I hate being one?”

            “It doesn’t mean that they’ll be loved like a son.”

            “Oh—stop it.” With an angry jerk of his arm, Wood slammed his beer bottle into the edge of the counter above him. Shards of broken glass danced in the air, raining down on the man’s stomach. “Just fucking stop it. You can’t even deal with your problems and you’re already tryin’ to fix others. This isn’t your Marines. This isn’t Afghanistan. You just got here.”

            Face red with anger, Wood reclined back, popping open another dark colored bottle. “Don’t think you can fucking fix everything.”

            “I wasn’t trying to fix your hopeless ass,” Graham said, raising his voice. “I was just trying to figure out how you tick. Why people stare at you with fear. So no. I’m not going to _stop._ ”

            “Oh, I get it,” Wood took a gulp from his beer, “Why are you so obsessed about us? Too busy tryin’ to figure out our problem, huh? Oh, that’s rich. Why can’t you figure out your damn own?”

            “What’s with the animosity? I just got here about a few minutes ago.”

            “’Cause why the hell not? You’re just going to judge me like everyone else. Hell you’re already doing it  now.”   
            Graham took a step back, folding his arms and leaning against the closed front door. He was right. Almost unconsciously he had decided to fix this person. It was a habit. If a person was hurt, help them. If they needed someone to talk to, talk to them. It was a reflex, edged into his bones. Did he think it was a weakness? Sometimes, but that is what he did and was trained to do. Thinking otherwise felt impossible now, an instinct.

            Discomfited that he even decided to deal with this, Graham shook his head. “What did you do before this?” he asked, remembering Raleigh’s words.

            Wood almost choked at the question, wiping spittle from his mouth after the near call. “You—“he coughed. “You really want to know.”

            The room went so quiet; Graham had the half mind to walk out.

            “Y’know what I did, I killed people. Not like you, it was _much_ more personal than that. I was that guy that y’all saw on television and thought: ‘that’s the lowest scum of the earth’. But were watching in, never knew the reason. Never knew the person. Just judged them by their actions,” Wood reclined back, “You aren’t here to save me, Graham. I’ve been gone way too long.”

            Reeling back his residual anger, Graham took some steps forward.  Yeah. This guy was the type of person that he swore he’ll burn in hell himself. Even now, he wanted to scream at him, and fill him with bullets from his weapon. But he didn’t. Something in the back of his mind told him no. Right now, he didn’t know if it was the angel or the devil he was listening to. “Wasn’t right for me to judge.” Graham flexed his fingers. “It’s your damn life.”

            “Guilt-trip. Really?”

            “No, I’m sincere. Whatever you’re doing is your business. Whatever you did, you have live with.”

            “You don’t think I know that. I just don’t lose sleep over it. Can the same thing be said to you?”

            “I’m not a murderer. I do what I do to protect what I believe in.”

            “If that’s the case,” Wood yawned, “I can claim that same right.”

            A dry swallow accompanied the thought of that truth. Graham sighed. He was right. Anyone could claim anything was right. It was a normal human thinking. But he knew there was a difference. He just didn’t have an accurate way of wording it. If he did now, he would sound self-righteous. _I “am” self-righteous_ , he thought grinding his teeth together. It wasn’t a bad thing. But, it crippled men if used incorrectly. Even righteousness needed discipline.

            He centered himself, staring at the pale man cracking open another bottle and almost completing it in one guzzle. “I’m not going to try to change you.”

            “You couldn’t if you tried.”

            “But, you keep Drifter safe, right? No matter what.”

            For a moment, a brief one, Graham expected that he would transform into that monstrosity again. He even touched the gun, fresh with rounds, ready for it.  But, Wood didn’t.

            His demeanor was strong enough.

            Wood stared with one hand clutched against the neck of his bottle. The sleepy eyes were ablaze, mouth tightly pursed together. He was mouthing words as though he was unable to properly say what he had swimming in his head. Graham couldn’t either. It was immeasurable, incalculable. Graham did notice something, however, something he hadn’t before. In Wood’s fist, all this time, was a ring. It was a single red-gemmed ring that danced in his free palm as he drank. He smiled, laughing off the foolishness of the question.

“No need to worry about him,” he said as he sipped at the dark liquid, “You need to learn that this world isn’t going to favor a Marine. No. I might even like a pet that much better.”

_

Graham found himself silent for most of the day after the discussion with Wood. The Drifter’s Caravan had made more progress to the Boneyard, being a little below which was once North and South Carolina’s border. Since he was sleepless and adept, patrol duty came to everyone’s mind for the first job. He didn’t mind. The time gave him something to do and some time to be alone with his thoughts. Even with the occasional scare from a mutated bear or wolf from the rest of the sentries, it was still a good time to get himself together.

            He paced the roof of the armed truck, boots thudding against the thick metal.  His first thoughts were about Wood. Thinking back on it, the words stung like a swarm of bees protecting their queen. Graham knew in different circumstances, he would have never seen Wood at all. If he had, it would have been in his barrack or a living room on television with a lit cigarette in hand and a spiteful look on his face. His honor didn’t want to believe that he went from working with good honest men to the very hosts of moral ambiguity. But, he knew that he couldn’t complain. Not in this world, not with danger lurking around every corner.  He had found allies before he had found enemies, and that was luck or a blessing at its finest.

            Months ago, probably going on a little closer to a year, life was simpler. If he had heard himself say this on a deployment, he would have laughed. But, it was true. It was easier to know who the enemies were then. There were the people trying to kill you. Certain people were your enemy—targets if you must say that—and you needed to defend as many people, defeat them quick and clean, and keep your friends alive. Now, it was life or death by any source in your own country. _I hate that it’s come to this._

            He took a deep breath.

            At least his memory was returning. When he had first awakened, he hardly remembered anything. Now, floods of memories cluttered his already muddled thoughts. The corpses of his comrades flashed in his mind, hand in hand with the memories of them. They were really dead. Why couldn’t the force that brought him back, bring them back too. They had been good people. He wasn’t any more special than any of those young men.

            Survivor’s guilt is what they called it, he knew. He had saw and even met fellow Marines that had went through this exact thing. They were broken men, with not nearly as much help as they should have gotten. Some went mad. Some dreamed and hallucinated images and sounds as though they were real. Others just panicked. Graham always thought that this would never happen to him, he would never have to deal with losing everyone. If it had happened, he would know a way to channel it to make himself strong and keen.

_That was the stupidest damn thing I’ve ever thought._  

            If he was going to break, he was going to break. Hell if he was going to let this world bring him down. Not like this. He inhaled through his nose, sharply. No.  He wasn’t going to become a product of this world. The truth behind this was something he needed to find out. Closure was something that needed to be found. He was at an unwilling funeral of a world without something of a eulogy. It would take him to write one, even if it takes going on this journey with the Drifter and finding any and all clues to that point.

            “It appears that I can help with that.”

            The voice had taken Graham by surprise, but quickly shot him into defensive action. He turned his entire body, whipping his light machine gun (which was anything but light in weight) with deftness. He knew in his training that this was ill advised, and relatively impossible for a normal human to do, but he had no choice. He had to react. This person might be an enemy and if so, they would receive at least fifty from his two hundred round belt of ammunition. However, the woman didn’t seem an ounce impressed, even with such a dangerous weapon between her eyebrows.

            “Hello. David Graham, I presume.”

            Graham didn’t respond, only readied his shoulder. He was prepared to fire, even if it was point-blank.

            “If I _truly_ wanted to hurt you, Mr. Graham, I would have done it already and you wouldn’t have even known. So, put that down. Both you and I know a battle this close range with that would be hazardous…at best. So stop fooling yourself and wasting my time. I’m just here to talk.”

            The woman pushed aside the barrel of the weapon as though it was a toy. “It would be smart to hear me out before you make an enemy, right?”

            Graham lowered the SAW, staring at the woman before him. He looked around for a moment; no one else seemed to notice her. She wasn’t mixed in with the night. She wore a long white cloak, a simple grey shirt, long grey pants, and boots. No. He would have seen her come up if all possible, especially in the weak moonlight hanging above them. Yet, he hadn’t. He was unsure whether to blame his thoughts or her skill. She smiled as though she was reading him.

            “You have already seen a demon before. So let’s get pass the how do you know me and how did you get here phase? Besides, your rotting flesh gave it away. You’ve become sort of popular. Beastmaster was found in a nearby village, ranting about fighting against a living corpse. I just pieced together the rest.” She tossed back the hood of her cloak, revealing her blonde, almost white, hair. “I am Celine Collette, Truth-Wielder and Memory Follower...and you…you are going to help me with my goal.”

            “What makes you believe that?”

            Celine gave a sullen chuckle. “Why wouldn’t you?”

            “I don’t know anything about you.”

            “Why does that matter? You don’t know anything about the Drifter or Wood or anyone in this…band really. But you stayed. I’m not sure if that’s your pride, loneliness, or some sort of twisted ethics that you swaddled yourself in like a babe. But I’m not here to entertain you, because you don’t entertain _me_ , David Graham. You are a novelty in this world, bound by invisible laws and honors that can change anytime. You require living flesh to survive, correct?”

            Graham’s pale eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

            Celine tossed her hair. “I thought we got passed this, Mr. Graham. I just _know_. But the real question is, what type of undead would you be if you didn’t eat humans?” She laughed, pressing her fingers against her chin. “That’s right, a novel one. What are you going to do about it when those precious eyes become riddle with veins and hues of red?”

            “You know how my hunger works?”

            “Of course, I do. I know a lot. It’s _you_ that is walking around without a head. I need you alive, David Graham. You, Ragnar, Wood…others…” Celine trailed off in an annoyed breath. “If that means pushing your hand and telling this Caravan that you need living flesh and blood to survive, I will. You would want to do a different route, I’m sure of it.”  Celine circled around him, walking dangerously close to the edges. “You possess something that I want and you don’t know it yet. I’m not going to risk you killing yourself over something as silly as rights and wrongs.”

            “I’m not going to eat a living person.”

            “Then maybe the Caravan can help you when they go hunting. Unlike you, you don’t have to worry about contaminates…” She shook her head. “I’m not here to talk about biology with you. I’m here to tell you something important.”

            Graham shifted, still keeping a good firm grip on his LMG. “What do you want me to know?”

            “That’s a much better tone.” She smirked, but it didn’t reach her silver eyes. “You are going to meet three foreigners in what we call the Boneyard. You are going to need to make sure that those three survive.”

            “Why can’t you?”

            Celine rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “It’s not advisable for me to. Let’s leave it at that. Can you just pretend for a moment that I’m some sort of superior in your Marines? Take orders. Don’t ask questions. Can we manage that?”

            Anger fumed in Graham’s chest. Somehow, he maintained his collected demeanor. The Marines had different orders, carefully executed. Were they always right? No. But, they had a reason. Graham didn’t have any clue what this damn woman wanted. She could have some ulterior motives. This could be a trap. She could be leading him to a death, but she needed him. Just like the Drifter needed him right now. He squared his shoulders. “Alright, let’s say on this fucking make believe situation that I do meet with these three foreigners. Why would I help them?

            “Isn’t that what you do? If you didn’t, couldn’t you say that the world changed you?”

            Graham opened his mouth, but quickly shut it. Today wasn’t his day for winning arguments. So, instead, he just remained quiet with his face stern.

            Celine, realizing that she won and got her information across, bowed like she was on stage.  “It’s been a pleasure to speak with you, Mr. Graham. But, I really _do_ have to go. We will talk again…on more…stable terms.” She waved her hand, releasing what felt like a wave of soft energy. “I suggest some sleep, David Graham. It will help your hunger problem. Until we meet again.”

            “HEY, Graham! Is there a problem over there?” shouted one of the other sentries.

            “I—“ Graham turned his head for a second, and then back.  The mysterious woman Celine was gone, leaving no trace that she was even there to begin with. “It’s nothing—nothing at all.”


	7. Fifty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graham's skill set is a rare one in the world. That was what made him a teacher and gave him a new squad.

7

* * *

 

_Fifty_

_“This world isn’t for the weak of heart. I’m not going to stand for anything other than the best at my back. If I have to beat the best out of you, I will. Demons. Mutants. I don’t care. You wanted this, but I’m going to make you hate that you did.”_

* * *

 

Graham had taken Celine’s advice and actually slept. It was different than sleeping as a human. Somehow, the bed felt wrong. He didn’t need sheets to keep him warm or the comfort of a bunk. Instead, it felt right to just lie on the dirt outside. The soil felt better underneath his body. At first, he had thought that it was just a mental impulse. More hours that he lied on the burnt ground, the more it felt like he belonged. It was beckoning for him to rest, and he did.

The weirdest part about it all is that he dreamed.

His mind was still alive for the most part, so the assumption could have been made. Unlike when he was fully alive, however, he remembered it. It was only colors; dark greys, browns, and whites. But, rain. He could remember rain and a chair in a blank room. There were voices, faint amongst the pattering. Some of them sounded familiar. Others he never heard before or couldn’t remember. He pushed the thought away. It was a dream. It didn’t have a meaning.

Standing up, Graham dusted off the dirt from his uniform. He squinted. _About early morning. 5:30 or 6:00,_ he thought, _good enough._

Late last night after Celine’s visit, he had received a list of people who wanted some training by him: Raleigh, Juvenico, and a few others to boot. That very moment, Graham slipped into the “teachings” of his drill instructor all over again. He remembered his first time off the bus to the Marine training camp. He remembered that pride in his choice as he stepped into the presences of his instructors. That was soon followed by fear and humiliation, plenty of each.  The experience humbled him, made him stronger both mentally and physically.

            And he was going to mimic that in the best and worst way he possibly could.

            Graham grinned as he pointed out each of the RVs.  The methodical gears in his brain churned out thoughts. He was going to visit each and every one of them. He might not have the luxury of getting all of his troops at one time, but each personal visit could be different. A part of him always wanted to be a drill instructor. What stopped him was the ever so tedious paperwork. This way, with the world the way that it was, he could pursue that dream—in some twist of fate.

            Cracking his stiffed neck, he made his way to Juvenico’s RV. He knew that Juv was one of the few people that had his own RV, so he wouldn’t have to worry about waking anyone else in the vehicle. That meant that he could be loud, very loud. Shouting over engines and over gunfire taught a man that. 

            _Those times_ , Graham remembered, tinged with some odd sweetness. The unit had a nickname for him: Huskie. Short in statured and well built, the name was already well deserved. His voice within the battlefield solidified his name. He could bark orders and affirmatives like the best of them. There was a time for calmness, but there was also a time for yelling. Even over the roaring engine and drumming of sand against the side of trucks, his voice triumphed.

            A sleeping man in a RV didn’t stand a chance.

            He approached the door of the vehicle, grinning. Given his somewhat toothless back row, Graham figured he must’ve been sinister. He coughed, readying his throat. _Wait._ He stopped himself from screaming midway through the motion. A glorious thought struck him better than any muse could do an artist.

            Giving it no thought otherwise, Graham kicked open the door.

            It caved in a single buckling motion, showers of rust flying in all directions. That would have surprised the Marine if he wasn’t already focused on his next objective. Growling like a mad animal, Graham stood in Juvenico’s messy home. His hawk glances absorbed the room’s layout in seconds, almost instantly locking on the slim man staring wide-eyed back at him. Juvenico, still in his bunk, looked as though he was frozen in fear. “What the hell are you doing,” Graham shouted.

            Juvenico gulped.

            “Get the hell up. What’d you think that you asked for? A fucking tea party? Do you want me to go ask Heron to pick you out a damn dress?”

            Graham never thought of himself as a person of excellent ridicule skills. That didn’t stop them from flowing out of his mouth. Juvenico sprung out of bed, and subsequently threw on the nearest pair of trousers and a t-shirt that he found. Like a true instructor, he shadowed every movement, being almost inches away for the full effect of his shouting. At times, Graham could hear the gravel in his voice.

            At some points, the thought to curb his mouth surfaced. These were almost instantly banished into something harsher. These men need to learn how to survive, learn how to live in this harsh world. Yes, they had more experience than he did right now. But a lot of them weren’t warriors. Yes, the Drifter had survived with his group and sheer power. They needed a focused force.  Graham was more than aware that the Drifter knew this. Otherwise, he was sure that he wouldn’t have been so quick to trust.

            “Pick up your damn pistol,” Graham shouted, clearing himself of his calmer thought process. “I swear if I was a man eating beast, I would have eaten you _twice_ by now.”

            The thought of being eaten must have kicked started his engines. Juvenico grabbed his pistol, loaded it with an impressive sleight of the hand, and was halfway out of the door.

            “Did I tell you to leave yet, boy!” Even Graham himself was surprised how he spat the end of the sentence.

            Juvenico froze; face pouring with cold sweat that had already drenched his newly donned grey t-shirt. He shook his head. Words were failing him, crumbling into dust in his mouth. But he managed, after seconds of mumbling and a long fearful look into those dull white eyes. “No, sir.” He said, as clearly as he could.

            “Now, get the hell out of here. We have training to do!”

_

A total of eight—six trainees and two trained officers—offered their services.

            Drifter had “insisted” that Graham employed some help with this training regime. It was a simple request, given in a soft even tone. The removal of the normal cracking of breaking sanity had taken Graham off guard, so much that he almost instantly agreed.  The old man smiled wide, and returned to his lawn chair accompanied by his ever watching sentinel. Even now, the king and the mutant knight peered on, supervising over the training. 

            The two men that Drifter assigned to Graham was no other than the two tank drivers. It was an obvious choice really. Only people with high military experience would know how to operate the behemoths with such effectiveness. However, what Graham didn’t expect were the two men to be foreigners, not to mention brothers.

            Henderson and Paton McLanahan, more widely known as Haggis and Pub amongst the Caravan, were Scotsmen. The two soldiers had come to America from Scotland for a vacation, yet in turn, they got more than they bargained. The Drifter had found them fighting their way through a band of mutated men far north. They had been with them ever since. The caravan leader had affinity for picking up stray cats, or rather stray lions. The red haired men were tough sons of bitches.

            Haggis was the taller and more muscular of the two. His deep red hair was swept back, beard thinly trimmed. His face held strong features of a deep brow, strong jaw, and low cheekbones. His white skin was riddled with sunburn, though it didn’t stop him from rolling up his sleeves and getting to work. “Think we are goin’ to have a problem with these lads?” he asked, leaning against his tank, pulling up his goggles.

            Graham couldn’t exactly answer the Scotsmen. An _eh_ came out of his mouth instead.

            They were far from the star players that he wanted in his soldiers. Yet, he couldn’t be picky and neither could they. They had made the choice to be guinea pigs; in the end, they would be fierce beast.

            If only they could actually get their act together.

            Tyrus was easily the best out of the six. The man worked with fierceness, and even handled Graham yelling at him with a passive expression. It was almost a stark difference from his unsure mannerism back in the fort. Everyone seemed surprised to see him. Crisium had even asked if he wanted to do so. He just nodded. Everyone knew he could handle himself pretty well in battle already. Graham only assumed that he wanted to get better.

            Next in terms of innate skill and conditioning were Emelle and Forrest. Both had surprised him with their strength and conditioning, though they were a little weaker mentally. They were a couple, both of sand-colored hair, scrawny people that worked with the food supply mostly. Honestly, Graham had expected the woman and the young man to just fall apart. Yet they worked through it with a tireless vigor. They had impressed him more than he wanted to admit.

            Bringing up the rear was Juvenico, Raleigh, and another woman named Rachael.  They were lacked luster both physically and mentally. They had yet to do marksmanship training, which Graham hoped and prayed would go better than their current physical conditioning assessments. From experience, Juv and Raleigh would be at least good at that. Rachael was an enigma, and he was going to reserve judgment until she had a firearm in her hand.

            Things did seem rather bleak overall.  Worse, Pub seemed to be getting frustrated.

            Out of the two, Pub was the far less appealing one to look at. He possessed some of his brother’s features, the red hair, the blue eyes, and even freckles. Pub’s features, however, was far more unattractive. His head had been crowned with his receding red hair. He didn’t share his brother’s face. His seemed too wide, beard too wild, brow too low, and nose too big on his face; quite frankly, he didn’t give a damn about any of those. He was thicker and shorter than his brother, but held the same sort of demeanor. But he was gruffer, far gruffer.  Even now, he was ranting.

            Pub shouted in what Graham assumed to be heavily accented English before pacing towards his brother and his new superior officer. The bear-faced man sputtered out words towards Graham, but it was far too jumbled for understanding.

            “Pub! I’m havin’ a wee bit of a problem understandin’ ya. Slow down, man!”

            “Goddam idiots gunna get themselves killed. Dead, cold, six feet under—“ Pub paused, looking at Graham with wide eyes, “Sorry. Sort o’ just offended ya.”

            “No offense taken,” Graham responded, absentmindedly. “You got that feeling too?”

            “That we are gonna be sore beat trying to train ‘em. Aye.”

            “Worst of all, we are goin’ to have to get along. Do you know how it is to work with this bastard?” Haggis joked, giving a swift punch to his brother’s shoulder.

            “Plenty o’ people like pubs, not a lot like Haggis. Take that as you will, eh?”

            Graham allowed himself a small grin, as he slid by the two men, heading to circle of men and women finishing up their routes. This time, he didn’t yell. He just watched, and made it known by certain shifts of his body that he was doing so. He knew how unnerving the hawking could be. It gave no real motivation, no real push. Just a simple mind trick that forced them to believe something was wrong, something had to be wrong. But he gave no inclination. People tend to make their own fears when there wasn’t even anything there.

            Aware of his presence, Rachael Grimstad stared at him from the corner of her eyes and through her cascading oak-colored hair. A small thing she was, no more than eighteen or nineteen. Graham could practically see the sweat gleam from her brown skin, shining in the crimson sun of the land. She looked at him for pity. He gave none. Like everyone else, she was expected to reach fifty push-ups. She was on forty, arms quaking unsteadily beneath her like tree leaves in a hurricane.

            She pushed down, praying underneath her breath for strength. That strength never came, instead failed her. Rachel crashed loudly and face forward onto the dry ground. Anger slid on her face, as her arms quaked and her chest huffed.

            The entire caravan froze, watching in anticipation. Graham used his peripherals this time. With them, he saw the grin on Drifter’s face. Everyone, even him, was wondering what was going to happen next. Only Graham knew.

            Graham turned his attention to the girl, straightening his already rigid stance. A quick sweep of the eyes forced the other men and woman back to their exercises. His vision locked on the girl, who got back into a push up position. Many things ran through the commander’s mind. First was to yell at her. He could yell for days. His mind decided on a better course of action.

            “Ten more.” The command was swift and low, almost as though he was whispering it. That was worse. He didn’t need oxygen, he could yell from sundown to sunset of each day. Calmness, that sudden break from the barking, just to glare with his once-dark eyes felt more unnerving. To appear both disinterested and disappointed in her was worse; inside, he saw how similar she was to him.

            Rachael curled her lips, nervously staring at Juvenico and Raleigh as they worked through their last few. She took a deep breath in, giving herself small words of motivation. “You can do this. If they can do this you can,” he heard her say to herself. She took a deep breath, pushing down her weight up and down again. “Nine”. She continued, counting down.

            Graham didn’t say a word, just crossed his arms.

            She made it to five more.

            He watched her push herself, just a little harder. These last few were the hardest. Every part of your body is screaming in pain, ready to buckle against your will. But that same willpower was something that could make a person. No matter the pain and no matter what your body said wasn’t possible, you had to make it. Not just for you, but for the people that you cared about. Five, Four….Three. She stopped. “Two more,” he reminded her, as the rest of the group proceed to cool downs.

            “I—“

            A fire almost swept through his body, knowing what word was next.

            “I can’t.”

            “You will.”

            Rachael stared up at him, rays of sunlight shining bright behind his head. She probably couldn’t even see his face. “Why do you want this,” Graham beckoned to her.

            “To handle myself.” She swallowed her pain, forcing one more push up.

            “And why do you want it?”

            Pain swelled up her arms to the point of straining. “To protect the people that I care about,” she declared.

            “Wood, Crisium, and Heron aren’t always going to be there. Your friends, your family is going to depend on you to protect them from this world. And this world doesn’t like the weak, it never did.  So…are you weak?”

            Graham watched the final one, pushing the smile away from his lips. It was weaker than her last few, but she had made it and finally collapsed with a small puff of dust and sand. A smile stayed on her face, her body drenched in sweat.

            “We’re done for today. We’ll start again tomorrow.” He turned on his heels, marching away from the battered group. He allowed the smile to appear on his face, no matter how twisted or sinister it may appear to others. Haggis and Pub was the only two men that properly saw how proud he was, yet both of the men didn’t say a word. They just nodded appreciatively.

Everyone knew that he was the type of person they needed on the caravan.

_

The amount of skill it took to pursue was abysmal. It _really_ was.River had taken a great pleasure in doing so.

Drifter’s Caravan was something of a commodity with the threads of loose civilization left.  More often than not, at least three or so people in a village knew the current whereabouts of the man and goods. These people were usually very loyal, and equally tight lipped. Most of them would rather die than betray the Drifter. The very thought of that dedication was _hilarious_.

She had found a woman, a middle age hideous thing that was rumored to know the Drifter’s location. It was easy to convince her to taken in for the night with precious eyes and pleas for food. Before long, she was sitting at her table, eating horrendously made potato stew and hearing about this woman’s poor day. She didn’t realize how bad her day was going to be.  Not at that time at least.

            River played at first, filling in her part. She even managed to bring up the topic of the wandering mini-army with relative ease.  But the woman, Stella or something of that nature wouldn’t truly budge. She would dance around the topic or change it all together. The first hour was cute. River watched in amusement as the dedication to protect worked against her better judgment. The second hour, however, wasn’t so amusing. The woman bored her.

            As much as she wanted to be patient with that ogre of a woman, the urge for fun soon trumped that. River had taken a fork that the stupid woman carelessly left in her reach, and plunged it within the woman’s gullet. Of course, River didn’t allow her to yell; she had already leaped upon her and closed her mouth with her hand. Little by little, she had fun with the woman. She bit her, stabbed her, and burned her with the wick of the candle, all in which gave glorious sounds of pain from her muffled lips.

            River had allowed her to speak, threatening her not to scream. The fat hippo pleaded to save herself from her obvious doom. She gave the information that she wanted, and even the place that the Drifter was going. She was quite cooperative after the torture; it had loosened her tongue to almost slickness. She deserved a reward, a nice one. So, River gave her what she thought was the best thing to give her.

            Death.

            It was a _glorious_ one. One that people would talk about. She imagined that that’s the best sort of reception that ugly rhino could ever get. River was a Demon, and enjoyed her power probably more than anyone. She had used it on the woman after she had squealed. All that was left by the end was a few of the woman’s teeth, the only real good looking thing about her. They now adorned her neck, just the accessory she needed.

            River giggled at the thought.

            But back to business. She now watched in the cold of night, observing the caravans roll in the direction of the Boneyard. She had thought about an attack. Ragnar, seething and foamed mouth (adorable as it was), waited impatiently for a cue to go. River just wanted to enjoy the view, wait, and learn more about this creepy corpse man. She had learned that his name was David Graham, some military type. She also learned he was so virtuous that it almost made her vomit a few times. It— _he_ —amused her. Some much in fact that she was willing to cut them off before the Boneyard to see what he was really capable of.

            _It’s going to be a great time. Fantastic even, she thought._ She rolled around in the dirt, teeming with excitement. What made Graham work, what made him tick. The burning question being how was he alive? Did he have a soul, was it tasty? Was he delicious? She would find out. River always did.

            River gave a small smile, lying on her back and staring at the stars. A presence was nearby, a familiar one. She tried to stop the giggles. This person only made the chuckles worse. After only a moment, she knew who it was. “Oh Celine, you are horrible at hide-and-go seek. You must have had a horrible childhood being caught first all the time.”

            Celine stepped from a cloud of white mist. “River,” she said coldly.       

            The smaller girl sprung to her feet to view the white mistress. “Forgive me if I don’t remember this correctly, but didn’t you swear to kill me.” River feigned looking up and down Celine as though she was searching for something. “Then where’s the noose? Or did you misplace it?”

            “I didn’t misplace it; I’m just choosing where to hang you.”

            The two women stared at each other, preparing for an altercation.

            “Alas, you have a place in the grand scheme of things, River. I’m keeping you alive until you fulfill that. Nothing more, nothing less.”

            “You act like you have a choice.”

            They stared at each other, the air itself becoming stagnant with their power. Demon usually fought in hell. These had the pleasure of fighting on Earth. Nothing truly became of their show of force. Only thoughts that neither of them truly wanted to pursue. Not yet. There was a time and place for everything.

            “Did you come here to threaten me? You aren’t doing a fine job _at that_.”

            “On the contrary this time,” Celine said, waving her hand to stop the power rippling from her body, “I’m here to give you a warning. Stay away from the Boneyard. If you know better, you will.”

            River raised her eyebrow, leaning in. “What are you warning me against?”

            “You are underestimating the power of the Drifter’s forces. Wood and Graham are both dangerous. But there is another player, and that man will have no qualms in killing you. You need to be alive to see the end of this—as much as I loathe that is so.”

            The warning was cold and uncaring, but oddly legitimate. If River cared enough, she would have listened. Alas, it was headed through one ear and out of the other.

            “Are you done yet because I have a tip?”

            Celine frowned, cocking her head a little. A white kitten was what she reminded River of.  

River continued, “Before you start playing God, you should check if you have a pointed tail first.  You have sins, Celine. It’s better that you give in and enjoy yourself than pretend to correct them” The normal look of bliss and murderous pleasure drained from River’s round face. “I know. Oh, yes, I know Celine Collette.”

            “You speak in ignorance, and you will remain in that same ignorance.” Celine grabbed the side of her cloak, emphasizing her point. “Heed my warning if you listen to nothing else.” She didn’t wait nor expect a response. The white mist returned. It drifted near her and soon enveloped her with its long, lissome arms. Not even her scent remained.

            “She really needs to stop wasting her breath,” River thought jovially out loud. Nothing was going to stop her from having a good time. 


	8. Premise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have taken steps forward to figure out who was behind this. One step leads to another while Graham's memories work like gears in the background.

8

* * *

 

_Premise_

_Premise is the foundation of everything, the general basics behind a solution. But one needs clues to figure out a mystery. This time, the world was the victim. Now, we have to figure out who started this and why._

* * *

 

He hadn’t eaten in a couple of days or so.

The realization of that struck Graham with a dull thunder in the back of his head.  He was off guard duty for today, staying in a small truck. One man, a gaunt fellow nicknamed Drum, had offered his RV as payment for the protection he had been giving. He would have taken this beaten truck since he had been driving it all this time; his wife drove the RV in his stead. Graham had refused. This was nice enough even after he heard the story. His living quarters once belonged to a man who was now dead and ironically given to another dead man before that. Death was the only one that inherited this truck and lived. That’s why he took it.

A bunk and a small stand stood in the gutted trunk. Above him was a roof made of some metalwork and a few patchwork textiles. There wasn’t a lot of space. Even as a shorter man, Graham could only stand hunched within his home. There was some sort of minimalist comfort to it all. _It’s still a nice place to think,_ his mind reminded him as he sat back.

 Though the caravan was warming up to him as a person, it still didn’t feel right. For him, it didn’t feel like home. For them, he was an odd jigsaw puzzle.  A man could be good on his own, but things could make him grow mad. People tended to forget themselves in bad situations.

That was especially the case when a man hungers for flesh.

Graham hadn’t told them yet, not out of secrecy. The words just dissolved in his mouth. It was, however, a problem that would eventually arise. Wording it made the whole process that much more difficult. What exactly could he say: _“I have to eat something living or I won’t be satisfied?”_ If someone or something had told them that, he would have shot them between the eyes, especially if they could harm the rest of the group.

He frowned. But, it had to be done. He would need food, preferably before he met with the recruits for marksmanship training. Frustration usually dominated any better choice. Knowing him, frustration would happen. _So it has to be tonight then._

Springing up from his bunk, Graham roamed around his nearly pitch black space crouched. It was still night time, midnight or 1 o’clock at the most. Night vision with these eyes was extraordinary.  That didn’t mean finding his boots were any easier, and decided ultimately to just forego them in search for his knife and pistol, which he found much easier on the stand. He slipped through to the front seat and out of the door soundlessly.

A fist of warm air whipped him in the face as he stepped out. Humidity clung to it, kept company only by heavy inhales from the night’s patrol. They were nearing their destination, a hot-spot in the Dusk Territories. From what he had heard, Florida was almost impossible to tread due to radiation, but worse the scorching heat. That heat would travel north thus creating the Boneyard. Graham had half expected it to be made of wastelands and jungles, like he had saw in North and South Carolina. The world aimed to prove him wrong again.

The Georgia border was more like a savanna with hill sides and large lakes. At points, it had appeared that parts of the land were just bitten off, revealing pools of water. Brown blades of grass were halfway as tall as the trucks themselves. Both of the tanks were equipped to handle this situation, modified with long knife-edges to cut through the vegetation. Drifter was prepared for almost any situation and environment.

For a few moments, Graham soaked in this moonlight-covered world. Things felt different. He heard almost everything around him: footsteps, fluttering insect wings, rushing of water, heartbeats, …blood in the veins. _The last one’s new_ , he thought. His mind started to wander.  None of the other sounds mattered. His insides stirred, mind caught in a web.  He only looked straight ahead. _The sound._ Why hadn’t he noticed this before?

“Hey, Gra—“

The words didn’t hit him at first, echoing in his eardrums. _The sound._

“Graham, something—“

Still he heard next to nothing, just blurred sound as he stared into the distance. _That sound, you want it_ said a small voice in the back of his head. _You want it and want to tear it apart._

“Graham! Something’s wrong?”

_Nothing’s wrong. Nothing. Just hungry as all. You can’t tell them that._

_You have to eventually, why not now?_ His conscious seemed to answer. _Do you not trust them? Don’t you not trust yourself?_

Graham shook off his trance, and snapped his attention to Crisium. The woman’s yellow eyes flashed in the darkness as she stared down. He only saw her mouth moving, no words.  His brow furrowed, visions splitting. She cocked her head to the side, much like the wolf she was. “You okay?” He heard that one. She was expecting a response.

“I’m going out for a walk,” he responded, hurryingly. 

Crisium frowned, arching an eyebrow.

“Need some company?”

“No.”

At first, Graham had half expected her to come anyway just to spite him. It was in the way that she stood. The woman pressed her submachine gun on her shoulder, giving him a long stare. She narrowed her eyes, taking small steps forward towards the edge of the truck. Finally, she gave a smile. “You don’t know what the hell is out there, be careful.”

“I’ll be back within the hour. If not, search for me.”

“Nah. I’m not. Don’t come back in an hour, I’ll just consider ya a dumbass for not listening.”

Graham put on a sly expression, battling his true indecisiveness.  “Don’t you worry your head off while I’m gone.” He loaded his pistol and moved the knife into a more accessible location. “Anything I should know before heading out?”

“Nope, just mutant animals are a bitch to kill.”

Beastmaster’s fight still fresh in his mind had taught him that. “Noted.”

Advice taken, Graham chose a reasonable direction and headed towards it. The mask of camaraderie dropped, leaving only a hunter’s thirst. He would have to find something. Once he had it, he’ll rip it open. _You can’t stop your nature. Not when you were human, not when you are this._ He couldn’t prove his conscious wrong.

_

Stalk. Shadow. Hunt.

A million words described what he was doing now. All that mattered was that he was doing it.

Graham had allowed himself at least a quarter of a mile away before he gave into his body’s drives. It was frightening at first. A large part of his body just yearned to a painful thirst. Soon, he allowed himself to become accustomed to the thought, to adapt. Most men would fight the urge to keep all threads of humanity. However, Celine’s words stung in the back of his mind. If he fought it, he could die. Worse, if he fought hard enough, a lot more people could die.

So he had to learn, even if it scared him more than anything in his life could.

Intuitively, he had gone into a crawl. Fingers and toes were firmly in the mud. Bulky dragonflies and mutated mosquitoes flew over his head, fighting vigorous and violent battles. There were worms as long as snakes and beetles larger than his fist had taken residence in mud beside and under him. He had felt them, felt their life. _They would never do, I need something bigger_.

He found it.

Blood dripped from his fingers, oozing from the sides of his mouth that he couldn’t quite chew on in his madness. The weapons that he had carried were almost next to useless in his hunt. The pistol had been used to weaken it, slow it down. Swiftness of his body took the rest. Blood stirred the darkness in him. Plans for the knife went straight out of the window.

Now, he sat cross-legged, almost uncomfortably satisfied with the bear’s throbbing intestines in his mouth.   He swallowed, feeling the hunger reel back like a fisherman’s line. Graham greedily licked his lips clean of blood.  _I shouldn’t be doing this._ Being eaten alive, with no true chance of a fight, was a doom no creature wanted. The thought should have saddened him. Nothing. He felt nothing.

 _Survival_ became his favorite word. It kept him company and tucked him in. It was a word that he had learned too well, and used too often.  The meaning of his existence at this very moment boiled to it.  He didn’t have a reason to be here.

He had, in fact, been going through the motion of it all. Drifter had accepted him, for one reason or another. Orders came and gone and he did them. Words and sights would enter his head. Nothing compared to what he lost. His memories barely produced anything in his head, but he still missed the Marines. Everything he had ever wanted, everything that he had ever been, taken from him, by…

By what exactly. By fucking what exactly.

Why was the world like this? What destroyed everything that he knew? Why couldn’t he remember? Why was he this?

For the first time, he let his anger boil, leaning over to savagely dig for the heart of the beast. “There’s a reason,” he declared, tearing through the sheets of red muscle and fat. “There has to be a reason.” He peeled through more layers of meat, finally revealing the heart. With an almost incredible strength, he tore it from the corpses, it slowly beating in his palm. “And I’m going to find out.”

One hunger may have been averted, but another still festered. A lone bear, no matter the size, couldn’t satisfy the craving for the truth. Just like this heart, he was going to rip the history of this mistake out of a corpse.

_

Graham made it back to the camp. He had washed a lot of the blood from his purpled flesh. What was left was only from the lacerations from his rot. For a couple of moments, he laid on his back looking up to the ceiling of the dark room. As much as he tried to convince himself he was tired—a concept that was harder said than done—his body refused to rest. The meal was sustainable, so he felt no need of the sleeping process.

Alas, he would have enjoyed the escape as opposed to the staying up doing nothing.

He closed his eyes again, trying to force himself asleep. Maybe it was the bed, last time he slept outside. _That wouldn’t help right now_. He sat up, rubbing the corners of his eyes. “Dammit, David. Should’ve gotten more sleep when you could.” As Corporal, he hardly even slept. Now, he wished that he had. Escaping from the dark, Private First Class R.J. Andres had called it.

Somehow no matter what he did or what he went through, R.J could sleep at night. Graham only remembered vaguely how the man did it. The words escaped him, lost in the core of his memories. _I wish I knew, RJ._

A knocking of the door saved Graham from his endless pondering.

He got to his feet, successfully finding his boots this time, before answering the door.

Wood stood, sleepy-eyed and obviously somewhat irritable, in the door way.  He scratched the green stubble on his chin. “Uncle wants you…” he muttered, yawning.

“For what exactly?”

“Planning…”

“Planning for what?”

Wood shrugged lazily. “Planning for planning. Damn if I know.” He gave another yawn. “He wants you there. I’ll drag you there if I have to. Missing valuable sleeping time.”

“You sleep damn near all day when Drifter’s protected.”

“You try transformin’ into an acid spitting monstrosity on a command…”

Graham couldn’t argue with that. “Lead on.”

The two men ventured crossed the camp not sharing a word. Though it was nighttime, the caravan was still too quiet. A few of the lights were on, dimly flickering through some of the steel shutters. Nearly everyone was up, Graham guessed. _That’s unusual._ Normally, despite everything, the caravan slept soundly with the guards patrolling—at least in his time here. The only thing that he could assume was that something was going down and something that the Drifter probably didn’t like.

Wood opened the door to him and his father figure’s RV without a knock. Graham followed, extending at least that courtesy with a rap of his knuckles on the open door.

“Graham,” the Drifter bellowed, “Come in, son. Come in. No need to be so….” He searched for a word.

“Civil,” Wood answered, plopping face down on the nearest couch.

“Civil! That’s a good word! Come, come in?”

Drawing a deep breath out of pure nerves, Graham entered, closing the door behind him.

Drifter, his long white hair ablaze with orange color from the candle, sat comfortably in a recliner. Beside him was Heron, dressed in her leather vest and equipped now with her sword and pistol. The Scottish brothers sat opposite of them, both with ale in hand; only Pub had a cigar dangling from the corner of his lips. Crisium and Tyrus stood in the back of the RV armed considerably well.

Graham took in the surroundings, and for fleeting seconds, he felt unsafe. _What are you doing?_ His hand touched the gun in his holster. _You’re on edge; you’re paranoid that this might be about you. Trust them._ Only Heron and Drifter saw the motion. The former scoffed. The latter smiled, pushing back a laugh. “You should take a seat, trigger-finger…” Heron gave a cold look after speaking, glaring at the seat covered completely by the half-sleep Wood. Graham remained where he was.

Haggis gulped down his ale. “What? Ya don’t trust us, after all we been through. Breaks my heart, I tell ya.”

“Don’t wound ‘em, brother? He’s just defensive—aye, Drift?”

Drifter jerked his head back, eyes still looking directly ahead. Graham hadn’t seen that face from the man. The old man peered over his glasses. Graham didn’t flinch. Inside his stomach bubbled. Whether it was from the food or the sudden insecurity, he didn’t’ know.

“Trust—that didn’t stop you from joining us, what has changed, I _wonder_?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course, you don’t. Let me give you a lesson. Trust isn’t bad or good. It’s a concept, an idea. It only changes when something’s added to the mix or taken away. What have you added? What did you take away? What’re you hiding?” 

“I’m not hiding anything.”

Drifter pulled off his broken glasses. “But you are and I wonder what that is, Mr. Graham.” He cleaned the bronze rim of his glasses with his dirt covered tank top. “Little white feather,” Heron nodded, “Would you mind…fetch me my meal?”

Despite watching Heron disappear into the kitchen area, Graham felt the meaning of the statement. _He knew_.  Somehow, someway, he had figured out what he needed to eat. Mind games were far from his expertise. Yet he knew he just lost one. Drifter just smiled in his victory. “Oooh. You’re horrible at this game. Alas, that’s not why you are here.”

The rest of the room seemed to take in a large exhale at the same time. Heron came back with bread, dried meat, and a mug of water on a small tray, sitting it in Drifter’s lap.  “I called you here for something different—“Drifter grabbed his cane, knocking Wood on the head. “Other people are allowed to sit, my boy.”

With a few grumbles, Wood forced himself upright, entire body curled up within the chair. Heron took her place beside him. Graham followed suit albeit stiffly. 

“What I called you here for is something completely different?” Drifter sipped his water. “A scout of mine was killed the other day.”

Crisium shifted from her post. “Was it Stella?”

Tyrus eyed Crisium from the corner of his eyes. “You seem way too happy if it was.”

“I should’ve killed her when I had the chance, Ty.”

Drifter stroked his beard. “But she had her uses, even now. They say she was killed in a fire.”

“Remind me how that helps again?” Pub asked, blowing a ring of smoke.

Drifter said nothing.  Like a good showman, he took the chance to instill some suspense. Dinner kept his attention. He completed small bites of his bread, and chewed slowly on his deer meat. After he finished those, he drained his cup dry, licking his lips. “I gotta hunch she was killed by the demon that’s trailing us.”

“Or she flipped her candle over with her fat?” Haggis sipped his ale, suppressing the laugh from his own joke. His brother gave no such respect, almost choking on his cigar from his laughter.

Heron rolled her eyes. “Can you two please allow Drifter to explain before you continue your horrid jokes?”

The brothers looked at each other, as to continue their joke in private with their eyes. “Yes ma’am!”

 _Always jokers amongst the group._ It was a reassuring thought. Without them, the world would have gone mad long before all of this happened. Graham balled his fist. It was silly not to trust them enough with this...condition. But like Drifter said, trust was a concept. It changed often. So it was better to be cautious than not. “Back to the topic, why do you think that she was killed by a demon?”

Drifter helped himself to the rest of his bread, passing the rest of the meal to his nephew. “She was far too cowardly to die in fire. Besides, the way my watchers tell me about the body—or lack thereof—I can safely say that we have a demon trailing us or ahead of us.” 

 “It’s River.”

“River?” Graham scanned the crowd, looking for an answer. He found none. Finally, he turned to the speaker, who snapped off a piece of jerky into his mouth.

“River Valentine,” Wood repeated. Graham had never seen a grin so wide from the man. “We have some unsettled business.”

Drifter cackled. “We do, don’t we?”

No one else seemed to jump into the joy of it all.

This woman or girl was dangerous. Graham could tell by the way everyone was breathing. “So she’s priority if we have to fight her.” 

“I’ve seen her before. Crazy girl, no older than 17 or 18. Are you willin’ to kill someone like that?” Haggis asked. It wasn’t a question of could, more than would he if the choice arose.

Graham pondered it for a while. “She’s dangerous. Do I have a choice?”

Wood chewed his food. “Yeah, you have a choice. Kill her. If not, I’m sure as hell that you won’t like the one that’s left.”

_

The blood smelled like honey in his nose. Ragnar chose not to steal it from the “bees” that produced it right now.

Ragnar was dressing wounds. It wasn’t an unheard of concept. As the Cannibal Pack-King, yes, it may have been foreign. The man behind it all was not unaccustomed to touching blood as well. Mostly he stopped it. He was a doctor, a trauma surgeon to be exact. He was skilled, one of the best that ever touched the profession in many people’s eyes. The best part, he was happy, truly happy. The sweetness of a good day’s work wasn’t enough to save him anymore.

There were times where he would regress.  No, probably progress back to his better self. It usually happened when he saw certain people hurt. Anyone that looked like an old patient or an old family member sparked it. His mind would automatically assess what’s wrong. Before he knew it, he was pushing people out of the way, treating the wounds with anything that he had on him. It was a painful instinct at times. A man once lived in this flesh, that man believed in something better. 

But he wasn’t that man. “He” wouldn’t eat these people to survive the next day.

“It shouldn’t hurt any more, just don’t scratch it.”

The little girl looked at the bandage for a moment, already resisting the urge to itch. Fearfully, she nodded. Was this a kind face that she was used to? No. A bearded axe murderer was the last thing she wanted to see. But, on the same breath, she wasn’t going to have an infection tonight. _The same small infection that killed so many people in this sticks and mud town,_ he thought.

“Run along now,” Ragnar edged on.

She ran away, auburn locks in the wind behind her. He gave a sigh, shifting himself on the ground, mud covering his shredded pants.

“Raggy still has a soft spot for playing doctor!”

Ragnar frowned, as he cleaned his bloody hands; the blood seeped into the colorless water of a bucket. He gave a large grunt, licking the rest clean that he couldn’t wash. “I wasn’t playing “doctor” River. I _am_ a doctor. That didn’t precipitously change overnight.” _Though a lot of other things did._

River smiled, twirling into Ragnar’s sight. The two of them wore cloaks to the village, in case someone saw them. She had no qualms in burning the city down if someone was _stupid_ enough to try and kill them. Ragnar, however, thought it would be a better idea. For a man who could slip easily into rage and murder, he was soft at times. “Weakness is cute, you know. That’s the only real thing it’s good for.” She cocked her head to see the man’s face under the mottled hood.

He looked to her with a dark glare. “A little weakness breeds a lot of strength. But you wouldn’t know about that, little girl.” Ragnar gritted his yellow teeth like a bear.  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

River ran her fingers through the mess of Ragnar’s beard, looking at him—or rather through him. “I did what I came to do, of course.” She paused for a second, processing the previous statement. “But, Raggy,” she whispered, void of tendrils of her jubilant tone, “I know about weaknesses. I watched mine die.” She traced his face with her index finger down his cheekbone.

A sting followed the movement of her fingers, slowly burning where her skin touched his. “You are very _lucky_ that I enjoy your company.”

River felt the cold touch of a knife—or rather a scalpel—at her throat. “You are lucky that I need yours.”

The stalemate lasted a few long seconds, each feeling each other out in case of any changes in plans. None could work without the other. So, they broke away staring at each other with contempt. River was the first to change her expression, adopting her smile again. She brushed her hair from her face. “Not yet, Raggy! We have better things to do! We have a party to set up, silly. What kind of host would we _be_ if we weren’t there first?”

Ragnar opened his mouth to speak.

“A bad host! That’s what kind of host we would be. Who would come to River Valentine’s parties if I have a bad host reputation!”

“Everyone knows to avoid your parties…”

“Stop being a party pooper.” River slapped him on a head, as though they were the best of friends. “The Boneyard is already a few miles away, and I’ve set a trap for the Drifter. It should allow my—“she giggled for a moment, “My—“she tapped her chin. “My buddy to meet with his side of the bargain. We can’t exactly attack a well-armed caravan on our own…can we?”

“I had some men.”

“And they died! Imagine that!”

Foam fumed from the corners of Ragnar’s lips. He knew that. A lot of men, maybe not the best men, died that day. Drifter and his new undead toy had killed them. Men that he had known for years were dead at that soldier’s hands. And Drifter, well…he had started the crack in Ragnar’s mind, the crack the killed Dr. Scott Owen. Working with River was means to an end. It was fleeting until he accomplished his goal, then she would be dead. Alliances didn’t need to be long.

When one side got what they wanted, the bonds keeping them together would crumble. He would wait, take on her games and her jokes. That would be until he saw the chain that kept them together at his feet.  Ragnar reeled in the fury in his heart. “Joke all you wish. I’m going to get what I want…”

“And I’m going to get what I want!” She danced around him, moving like water. “But will you...” River ran her fingers down to Ragnar’s stomach. “What you wanted sat at the bottom of your tummy. Did that little girl remind you of her? How _did_ your wife and unborn daughter taste?”

By reflexes alone, River managed to dodge the arch of the battleaxe raining down towards her head. The heavy weapon slammed into the ground, ripping through the thick mud as though it was butter. “Don’t ever talk about them…”

“Blame Drifter all you want. You’re the one that killed her. Hehehe.”  River backed away. “Maybe I pushed _too many_ buttons. Have a nice day, Raggy!”

Ragnar clutched the axe, watching the young girl skip away once again. One day, she wouldn’t be skipping away. That day she would look down at her broken legs, begging for every mercy to every god she could fathom. None of them would listen to her prayers. They would just smile, watching as one of the other riders to hell sent her there early. That would be a good day. That would be the best.


	9. Mangroves and Pinestraw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Powerful people gather in the same place and memories begin to churn in Graham's head.

**_9_**

* * *

 

_Mangroves and Pine Straw_

_“A distant memory set off a film of colors in his head. Tangled roots curling underneath still water, the spicy smell of the pine trees and moss, it reminded him of home. Gears in his mind began to churn.”_

* * *

 

Preparation and fear knew each other fairly well, Graham wagered. The news of River spread from ear to ear. Younger members panicked at the thought of such a person. Older people kept their cool, but were still frighten as they held their children’s hands and told them it was going to be okay. The “Messenger” they had called her. When she came, problems arose. They were going to have to deal with these problems.

That’s why this marksmen training felt today.

The caravan themselves were only a few miles away from the village of Rootgrove, a small settlement on the border of what was Georgia and Florida. Rootgrove sat on St. Mary’s River, nearing the Okenokee Swamp. Through there was the only real entrance into the safe haven in the radioactive hotspot of the Boneyard. Whoever was pursing or setting a trap for them would undoubtedly be at the village or at the entrance of the treacherous death grounds.

So, his little group would need to be ready.

Marksmen training had been going rather smoothly, in comparison to physical training. The state of the world had taught everyone one thing, how to use a gun. If you didn’t know, the men with more skill or “unique” gifts would get to you first. However, this wasn’t just learning how to shoot. Anyone can point a gun and fire. A true master needed to learn how to shoot: when, where, and how. Fingers needed to be primed, eyesight keen, all the while having their breath held or regulated. They weren’t learning how to shoot, they were mastering it.

Drifter had provided them with several guns for practice. They had carried them away to the deeper parts of the mangroves, trudging through water and mud to get here. Weapon training was required, but they could risk being heard in the openness of the land. Here, amongst the trees and the canopy of thousands of leaves, only the animals could hear. If they became a threat, then Graham would handle them. 

Graham chose to let them all master one weapon, the M16, first before progressing into a suitable main and secondary weapon of their choosing. The choice between that and the M4 weighed in Graham’s mind as he talked to Raleigh before this. M16 won out a bit more, due to his fondness of it and the natural learning curve of the weapon. He guided them through the proper techniques; handling, operation, maintenance, and shooting. His words held meticulous detail, each topic with the care that his instructors had taught him.

With the instruction portion over, the teacher took his place on the sidelines.

Mostly, they were getting better. Emelle and Forrest was each a bit lazy with their shots. Tyrus, used to a closer ranged weapon, had a bad habit of firing too quickly. Juvenico’s problem lied in he never really held a two-handed gun. Raleigh was almost perfect with his shot. But, the kicker was Rachael who mastered the weapon with almost beautiful accuracy and efficiency. _Damn. I can’t even give her pointers right now._

“Rachael!”

The young girl lowered the gun from her sights, turning with a grin. “Yes, sir,” she chimed, her voice as sweet and innocent as ever. She swept her hair from her face. Graham opened his mouth to bark about safety, but she beat him too it. _Ahead of the game, aren’t you?_

“A bit good with that gun,” Graham said, trying to keep an unimpressed tone, “who taught you to do that?”

Forrest lowered his gun for a moment. “You haven’t heard, boss.” He raised his gun again, shooting a spray that hit the target with better accuracy than before.  “She’s Bardon’s kid.”

Amongst his short time in the Caravan, Graham didn’t know a man by the name of Bardon. “Don’t know of his name, who is he?”

Forrest couldn’t answer. His concentration persisted in a set of fire, sloppier than the previous. He grunted. Instead, his wife, Emelle answered. “Bardon Grimstad. He’s a personal friend of the Drifter, even before all of this. Very scary looking man if you don’t mind a little gossip, sweetie.”

A small chime echoed in Graham’s mind. That name, it sounded familiar. He couldn’t recall when or where he had heard the man, but it was there.

“He wasn’t that scary,” Rachael said, shooting another round perfectly into a log, this time splitting it in half. “He’s easy going for the most part. Just…”

“Deadly—“

“Learn to shoot your gun before speaking, Juv,” Graham said interrupting the man. The tan skinned man frown, focusing through the iron sights of the gun.

“He was a soldier, like you, Mr. Graham. He would teach me how to shoot sometimes. Archery mostly, he was quite fond of shooting his bow and arrows. Occasionally though, he would teach me how to shoot guns. I guess it stuck.” Rachel effortlessly shot another burst, but this time shooting Juvenico’s almost untouched log. It was an impressive shot, so good in fact it even made Graham lean forward. Normally, a soldier would get chastised for showing off. It didn’t happen this time. Rachel was getting payback for the grief she got in physical training. _We’re all too busy eating crow to say anything about it._

Juvenico whistled his impression.

 “Is he still at the camp?” Graham asked.

“No,” Rachael said, sighing. “One day, he just…disappeared. No trace. I talked to Drifter about it, and…”

“He didn’t give you a straight answer,” Tyrus finished, mimicking the girl’s technique almost flawless.

_At least, someone was getting my point of focusing the conversation on Rachael._

“No, he didn’t,” she whispered. “But I know he’s alive. He won’t die so easily.”

“Grim Face and Drifter were always really good friends.” Raleigh loaded his gun. He had been the most focused out of the group, so speaking and shooting was almost impossible for the chunky man. “Don’t see why he would ever just up and leave, especially without his only daughter.”

“He probably had a good reason…” Rachael sighed. “How about you, sir? What about your father?”

The question stirred a memory in the back of Graham’s mind. He followed the thoughts as though it was connected by an endless amount of strings. He surveyed his surroundings: the sound of crickets singing, long and green Spanish moss cascading from the trees, the smell of the murky water. It reminded him of his father: a stern, shrewd, and short man. He took him out to places like this, a long time ago. “He was a…very serious man….” Euphoria slipped into his head as he swayed.

The camp went silent as Graham touched the side of his temples. “Shit—I think I’m starting to remember things.”

_

The thought had accompanied Graham through the journey back to the camp. For the majority of the time back, he worked through the memories that surfaced from the back of his mind. Reawakening was confusing. He would remember short burst of memory, but never the whole idea. Yet now, something just clicked. Everything but one thing stood out now in his brain. That day. The day that killed him. It was still blurry as an unfocused camera.

The feeling of the day touched him. The pain, a gunshot wound.  He touched the side of his face where his skin stopped, stripped away from the side of his cheek and jaw. The bullet had hit there, through his cheek, shattering his teeth. Metal sung through his jaw and out the side of his head, marked by the hairless patch of darker bruised purple on his temple. Or maybe he had it backwards.  Maybe he was shot in the head and the bullet came through his teeth. Falling happened next. His limbs felt as though they were water in his memory. He had died then, only to be reanimated.

The rest of his group quietly let their “CO”—as they called him—think. Occasionally, they would ask him questions. His answers were usually terse—icy but untouched by annoyance. It wasn’t until they were halfway back to the caravan that he issued orders as the authoritative voice that everyone knew. “We’re going to Rootgrove 16 o’clock. Check on anything that you can possibly help on. Raleigh, I know that you need to work on the guns. You should finish those before we get to Rootgrove. Drifter didn’t specify if the village was safe or not.”

“Have they told you why we’re going to the Boneyard?” Raleigh asked, grabbing the bag of guns from the struggling Forrest with ease.

No. They hadn’t. Graham thought to ask, of course. Questioning wasn’t in his nature, so he went on for the ride. There was a time to ask for the objective. It wasn’t when the soldier wanted. He trusted in Drifter enough to know that the briefing would come. If it didn’t, he would ask then. “Negat—no,” he said catching himself from slipping into jargon, he promised not to be that guy. “But you guys know the Drifter better than me, is danger ahead?”

The group shared a look amongst each other, chorusing murmurs.

“I’m going to take that as a yes. Eat up and get prepared.”

“What about you?” 

Juvenico had asked the question, but it had been on everyone’s mind.

Graham shook his head. _Dammit, now everyone knows_. How exactly they figured it out was beyond him.  More than likely, Pub or Haggis—the two had been drinking quite a bit the night before—might have let it slip. Blame wasn’t going to get him anywhere. This needed to be handled at one point or another. Security is what they needed. Security that meant: I’m not going to tear you apart.  “I don’t need to eat as often as you,” he started, wearily picking his words as though they were grapes for a wine, “Just enough…enough that’s alive. To keep me alive. Dammit.”

Surprisingly, they all took it very smoothly. Icing on the cake, everyone just shrugged. Knowing that the man you just spent time in a mangrove alone with was a man satisfied on guts wasn’t assuring. Yet, they didn’t seem to mind. “Well that’s interesting,” was all that Rachel said. Her words spoke for the whole group.

 

 “We can help you find food if you need it,” Emelle said. “He’s responsible for tracking the game around here.” The thin lanky woman pointed to her equally slim husband. He grinned sheepishly. “Everyone swears he’s a mutant or demon of some sort the way he finds animals. But he’s always been like that.”

“Stop it, hun.” Forrest’s face was a bright crimson from embarrassment. “I just know animals and stuff…” he trailed off. 

Emelle kissed off his embarrassment from his face. Juvenico scoffed, heading towards his RV.

“Jealous, Juv?” Graham asked, grinning. He had seen that face before. Plenty of leaving and returning from deployments, he had seen the lonelier men pine for companionship like that. Of course, even after plenty of years of service, that expression had probably settled in his face a few times. Everyone thought that he was impregnable, but there was no man void of matters of the heart.

Juvenico grunted. “I’m not jealous.”

“At least you have a chance at it.”

No one had thought about it, but Graham’s condition ruled him out from any love pursuit. That revelation made the group stiffen with awkwardness. Rachael coughed, trying to ease the knot in her throat and the knot in the air. “Um…let’s get to work guys.” It was a futile attempt to escape, but just what everyone needed to go back to work. The group dispersed in a matter of seconds, just to get away from the talk. Nothing’s better than awkwardness to get people moving.

Graham nodded triumphantly at his success. “ _Sometimes, you’re a bastard.”_ Marines told him that more than a few times. After a while, he started to realize that was true. He was a hard-ass, jackass, 100% grade-A bastard and he wouldn’t change that for the world.

_

The day drove on, and so did they.

Graham rode with Drifter, Wood, and Heron on the top of the largest wagon. Drifter was always manned with two people at least; Graham never known exactly why. Not until they took the first ride into Rootgrove. The reception was neither warm nor cold, yet reeked with something. He described it in his head as if fear and respect shared a bed, but neither knew who dominated. That led to uneasiness, restlessness to a certain fearful mystique. In some cases, the foolish—on the mask of courage—would challenge the legend for his supplies or his prestige.

But, they didn’t have a guard consisting of some of the best soldiers. Nor could they manage to even defeat him. Drifter had amassed a reputation, not only as a group, but as a competent defender. The people of Rootgrove were smart enough for now, at least thoughtful enough to clear the streets as the man entered. That didn’t’ stop the feeling. Graham knew that something would boil here. _We’re in a pot with the burners off._

The town itself was only about fifty or so wooden and mud buildings. Rootgrove came around into a full circle, the tallest structures being near the center. Walled off by thick stone, it sat on a bend within the much larger and deep St. Mary’s River. Thusly, it was covered by the same canopy, string-leaved vegetation, and horrendously large insects like the mangroves they had trained in. Surprisingly, however, they had developed streets made of cobble and stones. Some streets possessed long black post with dim indigo lights gleaming at the top.  The way they glowed almost unstirred Graham. Even Wood seemed to be oddly weary of them.

All of the long roads worked like a web, leading into the middle of the village to a circle plaza. Within the middle was a metal statue of a man with long features, almost hawk-like. His face was pointed, nose sharp, eyes narrow, and limbs long. The statue had captured the man saluting proudly; however the look in his eyes seemed dark and cold. But, as good as the statue was, it wasn’t nearly as striking as the actual man standing at the foot of it.

The Conjurer, people had taken to calling him. He held this territory. The tall man stood proudly, grinning with pearl-white teeth, the only thing truly appealing about the man. His long hair hung around his face, dripping down his eyes.  His amber eyes, rimmed with black circles, never left Drifter’s face.  The roaring of engines and the rattling of cobble under the crushing weight of the trucks didn’t deter the man. He looked focused, fixated only on Drifter. _He doesn’t want us here. No one does._ If had the chance, he would plunge a knife in the Drifter’s back the first chance that he could get.

Today wasn’t that day; Conjurer knew that all too well.

“Drifter,” Conjurer roared over the engines like a mighty bird.

Drifter gave a simple nod. All of the trucks halted, even a few turned off their engines.

Wood and Heron jumped from their post first, standing sentinel as the Drifter eased himself down.  Graham took the rear, gun slung over his shoulder. Heron shot him a look, mouthing a simple phrase: “Stay alert.” As he suspected, Rootgrove was dangerous.  He was made of death, yet he tasted it in equal measures in the very air around here.

“It’s truly a pleasure to see you again.”  Conjurer’s voice matched his clothing, smooth and made of silk. He ran his fingers through his brown hair, trimmed with silver. That wasn’t the only thing laced with silver. “Truly, sir.”  He extended his long hand, at an attempt for a handshake.

The two men observed each other silently. Drifter was the first to break the silence. He gave a flash of yellow teeth, chuckling madly. Drifter felt normal sometimes. Other times, the normalcy just stopped.  “Pleasure was the word you used last time, Harmon.” Conjurer’s face went sour. “But bygones are bygones, right?”

“Of course, of course.” Conjurer folded his arms, taking on a more serene expression. An expression Graham and everyone else felt unnerved by. Drifter hardly seemed to notice. “What brings you to my corner of the world?”

“Your corner?”

“ _My_ corner.”

Graham tried to push back his expression of disgust. Wood and Heron did not show such restraint.

“I have two requests.” Conjurer opened his arms to the “city”. “You and your companions can stay here until your business is complete.”

“But…” Drifter drawled, arching an eyebrow.

Conjurer looked at his fingers, adorned with emerald and ruby rings.  “Your tanks must stay outside of the city limits and I’m only permitting a small group to investigate through the Boneyard.”

Everyone looked at Drifter, awaiting his response. The old man stuffed his hands in his pocket, walking around with his cane as though thinking about the possibilities. No one voiced their opinions. Somehow, it seemed out of place, wrong in the grand scheme of things. So they waited. Waited for the white haired leader to speak to agree or deny these terms. “I agree, if I can bargain. You don’t mind me swindling, right?”

Amused by the gesture, Conjurer bowed to allow him to continue.

“My tanks and the scouting party are agreeable, only if you allow me to look at a certain book that I _found_ was in your possession.”

“Oh you know about that!” He shrugged, unfazed by the added stipulation. “It has no use to me. Not anymore. You may take it if you like. It has already brought me what I want.” Conjurer clapped his hands together, irises of his eyes staring at Drifter. “Then we have a deal, Mr….. It’s a shame you know my name and I do not have a clue of yours. Mr. Drifter would do. Do we have a deal, Mr. Drifter?”

The deal was already forged and set. This was just a commodity, a ploy of mutual trust. Trust wasn’t there, just a temporary agreement. Drifter played the part better than an actor, despite that. “Of course. Of course, of course.” This time, he extended his hand.

“Good that we have met to an agreement.” Conjurer took his hand firmly, releasing in less than a second. “I’m sorry to cut this short but I have other business to tend to. If you excuse me.” He turned on his heels, heading down the largest pathway of the city, green silk robe flying behind him. He was happy; everyone saw it in the way he walked. That man was vile, and a vile man happy was worse than a snake bite. Somehow, they were equally as poisonous.

Graham touched the end of his gun. That man has probably killed thousands of innocent people to get here. “I don’t like him.”

“None of us do.” Heron gave her best impression of a frown, which in fact, wasn’t that different from her normal expression.

“Then why did we just let him deal his way to a tactical advantage?”

Drifter stroked his beard at the question. “Sometimes, my boy, you have to let the small dog act like the big dog. Everyone go get ready. Graham, choose a group.”

“Choose a what?”

“Potatoes in your ears? You’re going to the Boneyard.” Drifter tapped Graham on the head with his cane. “Remember, trust’s a concept boy. I happened to have little for Conjurer.”

“You think it’s a trap?”

“Of course it’s a trap, Corporal. That’s why I’m sendin’ a bear, a slim undead bear. Now get to it, our pursuer has made a deal with Conjurer and I plan to find out while you retrieve the contents of the Boneyard.”

More of this Graham heard, the less he liked it. “What am I looking for?” 

“A cache of some sort. It’s important. Trust me. In the meantime, I’m going to go find some cheese. Wood, come my boy. We’re going on an adventure for cheese in this town.”

With not even a second thought, Drifter and Wood detached themselves from the group, heading in the direction of some of the larger buildings of the settlement. Graham stood, watching them walk away. He was really going to do this. He was really just going to leave him with that vague of an assignment. Retrieval and extraction missions weren’t out of his resume, but really? This was going way over the top.

“Best not to think about it,” Heron warned. “The more you think about it, the more insane it looks.”

“I see that now...” Stunned, Graham turned towards the caravan. “I’m going to go prepare.”

Hell, that’s where they were going, he knew it. Right now, they were headed right into the gates of hell with nothing better than a flashlight and some hope. _A bumpy ride. Better bring something._  

_

_They’re here already, so the game will start soon._

Celine took another sip of tea from her thermos, staring at the large bunker before her. Among the muddy marsh, thick trees, and circle of bones, the stone building was completely camouflage by the very landscape itself. It wasn’t a site for a large battle. Something important was in there. They might not notice the gravity of it, but it is one of the keys to stepping back to the past. They needed to figure this out or things might get worse. Much worse.

Her mind sung whispers into her head. Take what’s inside, keep it for the sake of what you hold close. She could. Morality stopped her, she knew what was right. It would just alter the course, change things that doesn’t need to be changed. For now, she will sit outside of the game and occasionally help each player, equally, with tips.

She took a deep breath. There was one player that she hadn’t met. 

Celine knew of him. That wasn’t a warrant of anything. She knew a lot of things. He had just arrived in the Dusk Territories, with two other companions. She had only seen him briefly as he entered the Boneyard. In that small moment, she felt something. His very force, his very person was stained with blood like a murder in the snow. His very aura felt cold, cold enough for her to shiver when she saw him dismount his buggy, and enter into the bunker.

_Listening to an off-tune piano_ , Celine thought. That was how it was seeing the man walk and lead his men. He had killed before. Not like Drifter’s nephew, who killed violently at a snap.  No, he did this on an almost regular occurrence since he was of age. Now, he is going to be caught into a battle that he didn’t even plan to be in.  _A cornered beast is the worst kind of animal._

Celine knew that they couldn’t die. She couldn’t allow any of them to die this early. Graham, Wood, Ragnar, River…this man, they are all involved into something bigger. But, she didn’t know if she could stop it. She pursed her lips. Complications have gotten to know her really well these past few months.  There were so many variables and not enough sight. She wasn’t worried about this new player; her worry lied in the players on this board already.

_Snap._ The breaking of wood tore her from her thought. Celine turned sharply. River and Ragnar had arrived. However, they weren’t alone. She trekked through the mud, to get closer. The sight was something she wasn’t quite expecting.

With River, Ragnar, and the return of Beastmaster, they had other soldiers. Foot soldiers, dressed in all white body armor and gas mask with blue lens, were accompanying them.

She froze, dropping her thermos into the mud. _They_ were not supposed to be here. Her throat went dry, despite her expression keeping the form of cool and collected. She had known they were in the area, but River wasn’t crazy enough to strike a deal with them, right? No. Of course she was. It had to be the Conjurer’s doing. He was the only person that could have contacted them…

The Ancestors were here…and there was a Son in Rootgrove.

“Damn,” Celine said, dryly. Complications had indeed made an ill-friend with her.


	10. Bloodstain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two battles wages: one verbal and one as bloody as any other.

10

* * *

 

_Bloodstain_

_“There are two types of battles. The first is easy to see because it’s bathed with blood. The second, however, is much more subtle. Words are bloody in their own right.”_

* * *

 

Wood didn’t like this place. He could smell the blood in the air, lingering above Rootgrove and nestling in clouds. He knew this because he had smelled this fragrance more than enough times, whether it was his or someone else’s. The town looked as pretty as a post-apocalypse city could be. For many people, those who didn’t know better would even assume that it was safe. But it wasn’t. People often connected locked doors and pretty scenery with safety.

Serial killers knew this wasn’t true. 

The right and left hands of Drifter followed him closely as they paced down the “Main Street” of Rootgrove. The place was almost too well provided for. Though the town itself was made by the cheapest materials, there were way too many supplies and the people was living much too comfortably. Well, a small portion of the city was. Wood had noticed things last night. Things he knew Drifter saw too.

They had stayed the night in a large building—which Wood figured to be a hotel. It had accommodated all of the Drifter’s crew, marked at an approximate a hundred, with space to spare. Each room was fitted with fine silk curtains, one or more standard-sized beds with satin sheets, and a reasonable amount of refurbished or refinished furniture. To add to the troubling atmosphere, some rooms had electricity. That wasn’t unheard of in some larger towns after the cataclysm, but where was Conjurer getting the resources from?

Even with all that, the icing on this cake remained untouched.

More than a few times, Wood had noticed the “staff”. Most of them were dead eyed, and very few could talk. The speakers were dressed in black, usually robes or dresses. All the others were dressed in white, but were clothed in their specific job whether it was soldier, maid, electrician, or engineer. There were even children as young as five or six amongst these chess-piece colored servants. It all made Wood uncomfortable, so uncomfortable that his blood boiled in his skin. Yet, his Uncle didn’t notice. Or, he did notice and chose not to speak on it.

“Something’s wrong.” Wood stated, causally keeping the pace of Heron and Drifter.

“It seems like it, doesn’t it,” Heron added.

Drifter silently smiled, continuing forward.

“We are still going to meet with the Conjurer anyway.”  Heron didn’t like the idea, albeit for different reasons. Everyone in the Caravan knew her involvement with the Conjurer. She was a bit shady on the details, but one thing was for certain. They were to be married once. Everyone gave her credit though, she never complained about coming here, so they kept silent.

“You and he were a thing, right?” Everyone but Wood kept it quiet.

She rolled her eyes annoyed. “Yes. Amazing those things still happen when money and a company is involved. Can we drop it, now?”

Wood yawned, “I don’t get why you’re angry about it.”

“ _I_ do not get how you made it to adult hood with your unbelievable social ineptness. Do I ask _you_ about that?”

“Pressing matters, children. Pressing matters.” The two bodyguards kept their peace, allowing Drifter to speak. “I’m aware that something’s wrong. I’m also aware that I’ve sent four of my best men into a trap.” He paused. “Ain’t one of my best moves. Good for the timing, very good, but decent overall. Droppin’ Conjurer’s guard at the cost of him thinkin’ I’m droppin’ mine.” 

Nothing could be done when Drifter was like this. He would talk, his mind wandering into a series of calculated and uncalculated thought. It was best just to watch. At the end, you might get some insight. Whether if it was his plan of attack or what he wants for dinner, you could never know. “Heron,” Drifter stuffed his hands in his pocket, “I’m gonna to need you to smile, little feather.”

He said nothing more as they turned into the courtyard.

Morning was still fresh here, fresh with pure green grass glistening with droplets of dew.  Rose bushes sat on the rims of the courtyard circle, kept company by bronze statues of various gods and mentors of history. A white cloth canopy had been set up in the center, held up by large steel poles.  Underneath was a small set of furniture: a table decked with fruit and drink, cherry wood chairs, and silver cups. There sat the Conjurer, donning in a light green robe, with three servants: two women and a male. One of the ladies turned, a tan-skinned woman of about fourteen with long black hair, greeted them. “Drifter, Wood, Heron. Master acknowledges your presence, you may enter.”

 _Master_ was the word she used, and this place still smelled of blood. Not even this fanciful attempt at royalty could mask it. Wood gave a lazy gaze, coldly staring at the woman’s lifeless eyes.

Drifter shook his head. “Not now, Wood,” he whispered before clearing his throat. “The pleasure, this time, is ours.” He took point, wobbling forward on his cane.

The battle of the minds started. Drifter hardly had use for that cane. He was still agile and strong; that man wasn’t needed here. Weak and fragile suited his game much better. Conjurer had faced the strong and fierce leader in the past. Wood knew that Drifter would never do the same strategy twice.

“Come, come.” Conjurer raised his cup. “Come sit with me.”

Drifter did as he was told. He rounded behind the chair slowly, and seated himself before the “lord”. Heron and Wood did the same; alas, they kept upright as Conjurer’s bodyguards did.

“You could have dressed for the occasion, my friends. I would have provided it,” Conjurer said, sipping his wine.

“Formal isn’t our thing.” 

“It is rather okay, sir. People do like being comfortable.” The hawkish man gracefully bowed. A practiced gesture, Wood knew. “Heron, still stunning as ever.”

A forced smile, though lacking the awkward of one made by falseness, graced her lips. Heron squared her shoulders, tilted her head, and bowed graciously. “Thank you, Conjurer.” She had practice, plenty of practice. “May I say that you are looking exquisite as well?” She sweetened her voice ever so slightly as she talked. “I apologize for not taking your offer of a more appealing appearance.”

 _Hehe. Ahhhh. I get it. And I’m the horrible one._ Drifter brought her for this reason.

The look on Conjurer’s face looked rattled by the kindness for a split second. Like most, he had expected a snide comment from the woman. Instead, he got something far different. Heron knew the airs of politeness, well-versed in fact. She knew when to turn it on as well. This change caught the territory lord off guard. He recovered quickly, but not fast enough, however.

“Did you bring it?” Drifter asked.

“Of course.” The words was hurried, but held some sort of irritation. “Samson.”

A man, thin and sharp as any knife, stepped forward. He was darker skin, of some Middle Eastern descent with a dark shaven head. Unlike the others, his eyes looked different. The black gaze seemed in control. He appeared to be some law keeper of some sort with his body armor, leather boots, and thick leather gloves. Wood was sure that he wasn’t one of Conjurer’s. _He belongs to someone else_. Samson placed the blue covered book on the table, affirming the action with brisk nod. 

Conjurer tapped on the cover. “This is a gift, my friend,” he pushed it towards him.

“Gifts normally come without a cost, if I remember,” Drifter retorted.

“That is the very definition of a gift.”

Drifter leaned forward. “And you’re the very definition of a cost.”

 _It would’ve been much easier to just cut his guts out,_ Wood thought. The brilliance in him appreciated this game though. The choice of words was duteously careful. Each played cards whether courtesy, weakness, or pleasure.  Patience was thin for idiots. He yawned; Wood was far from an idiot.  

Running his fingers down the binder of the book, Drifter sighed heavily. “May I ask a question?” He lightened his voice, as though asking permission.

“Of course you may.”

“May I ask where you got this?”

Drifter hadn’t expected an answer, but a response never the less. This time, Conjurer didn’t react. The wiles of the one thing he wanted had been wearing off. “Do you ask what store your birthday present came from, Drifter? Don’t tell me that you cannot take a generous offer without glancing at the bag first,” Conjurer mocked, getting his footing back on the advantageous ground. “Let’s say, I consider this an investment for the near future.”

 

“Investment?” There was an amusement in the caravan leader’s voice. He reached for a small apple on the table, and poured himself drink.

“An investment indeed.”

            “Then I have right to take that away from you. Toast on it.”

            Drifter raised the cup, smirking, even bringing it inches away from his lips. His eyes told the story of what should happen next. Wood was glad to finally respond to this obvious debauchery.

Wood snatched the food and drink away. He took one large bite and a deep gulp, a rude gesture for a classy setting, but none less warranted. Heron and Drifter knew the reason of this. Wood fancied his mutation in this fact; science was always his favorite subject. It allowed him to recognize poison or chemicals, unaffected. In fact, he would take any stray substance within his body to neutralize the envenomed food or water, making his next transformation that much more deadly. Not many people knew that. It had been useful for protection, especially when things were laced with cyanide. Satisfied, Wood handed the refreshments back.

Drifter raised his eyebrow, smugly. He crunched on the apple as loudly as he could. He even downed the rest of the wine in a single gulp _.  And now we have it. The trump card’s off the table._

The Conjurer and the two women frowned at the prospect. “Do you not trust us that much?”

“No offense by it, of course,” Drifter nodded briefly. “I’m old and paranoid…”he sipped again, looking over the table. A small river of red, that didn’t quite make it to his mouth, ran down his chin. “Trust is hard to come by.”

“Indeed it is.” Conjurer turned to each of the women before standing up sharply. “Elena, Amy, we must be going. I have preparations to attend to...”

“Fancy me another second, well ya?” 

A dark shadow fell over Conjurer’s face. “It is rude of me to leave without much notice. Ask away.”

“You wanted me to send my boys to the Boneyard alone. Tell me why.”

Conjurer refused to answer. Politeness abandoned him. A half smile tugged at the corner of his trembling lips.   “I apologize, I must be leaving.” With nothing else to say, he stood and exited the tent with a quick flap of the white cloth.

Amy, a pale skinned woman with translucent eyes and light blue hair, conveyed his message in his stead. “That was none of your concern to ask, sir,” she hissed, returning to the side of her master. The two remaining servants followed her soon after.

Heron, finally released from her silent and friendly attitude, scowled bitterly. “He tried to kill you just then.”

“Cyanide mixed with…” Wood paused, tasting the residue on his palette, “some sort of pesticide. Guess he’s a conjurer for a reason. That shit’s gross. That mess would’ve killed you.” 

“At least he didn’t pull punches, very thoughtful of him,” Drifter said simply. He scooped up the book. “But I got one half of what I came here for.”

“And the other?” Heron asked.

“One thing at a time, dearie. One thing at a time. We’ve some defenses to plan.” Drifter tapped Wood in the back. “Good work, son. Good work.”

“I wanted to kill him,” Wood growled lowly. He knew why Conjurer had surrounded himself with idols of the gods in the yard. He honestly believed he belonged in their company. Sooner or later, he’ll see that his make believe throne was made of sand. _He’ll fall with no one to catch ‘em, but someone to tear him to pieces._

_

Graham and his company—composed of Haggis, Pub, and Crisium—rode through the entrance to the Boneyard in the mid-noon. The rusty iron chained fence was unmanned; the gate had been pulled aside before they got there. Thick vegetation grew at the base, supplemented by thick pools of greenish-colored water that rusted away some of the links of the fence. What stayed with Graham the most was the large sign. An uncut wooden plank marked each of the deaths the Boneyard claimed with a single small red stroke. There was barely any brown left on that wood.

He worried little about his own life.  If he died, it wouldn’t be his first time; he’ll have to accept it. However, if a companion died, that was an entirely different matter. Living with the pain of his already dead friends hung tightly in his chest. _I hold too many already_ , he thought. Three more might be the thing that caused him to break. Graham swallowed a breath full of air, a refreshing reward since he had trained himself to breathe less.

“Still don’t understand why we hadda leave our tanks behind,” Haggis grumbled, knuckles white on the steering wheel of the R-WMIK patrol vehicle.

“Hell if I know,” Pub spat, equally as angry.  
“Are you two really going to bitch about it the entire time we are in this place?”

Crisium was right. The two brothers had been moping about being detached from their tanks the entire time.  At first, they had planned to stay with them, babysit them. Drifter didn’t allow that. He knew that they were needed. It hadn’t stopped them from bitching about it. For a set of muscled, gruff, and flame haired men, they knew how to complain.

“Piss in my cup and make me drink it, but something’s off about all of this.” Haggis snorted like a bull. “I’ll feel much better with a cannon in my face instead of a cannon up my ass.”

Graham couldn’t deny the truth of that either. The moment they crossed the gate, a feeling settled in his gut. The surrounding area told tells of death. They had begun on a ruggedly torn road, traced with thick trees and dark vines. Not only minutes later, the road stopped; since then, it had been replaced by grossly overgrown grasses. Swamps reached out through the wilderness with arms of black water. Sunlight no longer touched the ground anymore here.  And the skulls…

Skeletons of animal and humans sat in almost every corner that the eye could see. Some trees had more bones in them than branches. Skulls were the most numerous, some yellowed and others freshly white. He had tasted it. Something was wrong. Something was definitely really wrong with this. “Stop the engine,” Graham said in raised voice. Somehow, it was still enough to startle everyone else. 

The engines died with the command.

“Dammit lad,” Pub muttered.” “You’re pure dead brilliant, y’know that. What do you do, eat rocks?”

“Sorry, I’ll practice my voice in the mirror next time.” Graham jumped out of the truck. “We go on foot.” The command came off much more sharply than he wanted. “Sorry. Something about this place bothers me….why are we here?”

Haggis and Pub exited the truck, with an odd silence. Crisium just strutted out.

“Looking for a clue of some sort,” Crisium admitted. “That may or may not be here.” She twitched the corner of her lips. “”Let’s just say it as something to do with something important.”

“The bombs and the bioweapons…you guys figure there’s a clue here.” The prospect of that wasn’t a foreign concept in Graham’s head. The most powerful caravan in the world must have gotten something of a clue dealing with the day of endings.  Drifter had suspected something, but kept the word low. As a man of his work, Graham wouldn’t ask too many questions unless it directly affected the job. Maybe he had respect enough to not tell him. Or rather didn’t want to risk his abilities on something that wasn’t there. “You could have just told me,” he said, loading his SAW.

Pub grinned. “We could’ve, you’re a smart cookie. You would’ve figured it out eventually.”

“’cause what’s the fun in that,” Haggis added.

“Stop doin’ that weird brother thing again,” Crisium interrupted, annoyed.

“Piss on it, girl,”” The two brothers hissed.

Graham gave a sharp hush. “There’s a _reason_ I asked the engine to be cut off. We’re in enemy territory. I can feel them. Stay close.”

Taking the lead was the logical choice. Graham took cautious steps forward, taking in the surroundings into his memory. He tore through the brush, rearing east of where they had left the vehicle. From maps of the charted area—though unreliable—gave them a good idea on approximately where to look. Too far they would end up in the Atlantic Ocean, given that a large part of Florida had dropped into the sea. If the bunker wasn’t in the sea, it’s possible to be somewhere in the direction they were headed.

Boots sloshed against the thick mud as they trekked through wilderness. Snakes, almost the size of a mythological basilisk, slithered down the path. Large spiders hung in the trees, spinning their large webs that tangled even large birds. Frogs leaped across, with hulking mutations in the legs and their backs. The animals were probably half of the deaths here. The environment was the other.

Graham had to be careful on where he took the team. More than a few times, Crisium’s keen senses told them where to watch out for. _She was good_ , he admitted. She knew where to step and called out any danger before it actually started. If she hadn’t, Pub would have lost a boot or worse when he was caught into a pool of thick slime. Of course, they pulled him out before it had resulted to that, much to his embarrassment.

About a few hours away from the truck, they had entered the deepest of the forest. That was when they saw it, the bunker.

The construct was built in a depression within the land. A grey and thick dome, it remained where other buildings hadn’t. Mildew dripped from the small cracks within it, and more than enough plants made its home there. _There aren’t any trees._ This place was preserved, and even cleared occasionally. By now, with the ravenous growth of trees from the chemicals, he would have thought it to be covered. But it wasn’t from what he could see. He pushed a leaf aside, peering into the canyon below.

He gritted his teeth.

There were people there. White armored men and women patrolled the perimeter. Each was armed with powerful looking weapons, modified in various different ways.  More than a few had arm bands, but all of them had an insignia on their shoulder. Graham couldn’t see what it was, but somehow he knew it meant something. _Well I guess we know something’s here now._   Attack on sight, their stances said. A patrol was never so rigid.

“Guys…”

Crisum looked over his shoulder. “What—oh shit.”

Haggis and Pub peeked around their commander’s body, and both went pale. “That’s not good,” Pub started.

“What’s not go—aw damn…” Haggis finished.

“Wanna clue me in?” Graham asked.

They reeled themselves back into the trees. Everyone went stiff. Graham’s was out of anxiousness, everyone else out of pure shock. Silence was the loudest speaker for a while. “Care to tell me why everyone’s gone all…quiet?” 

“Descendants.”

“They’re bad news, Graham. Real bad.” Haggis’ normally amused voice donned a seriousness that was uncharacteristic of him. He pulled the sniper rifle from his back, a slick Steyr model. “It’s going to get bloody.”

“The Descendants are the soldiers of the Ancestors,” Crisium explained. “They don’t like us.”

“By don’t like us she means that we tripped over a quite a few things we don’t suppose to know about.” Pub nodded to Graham’s SAW. “Give me that, sonny.”

“What?”

Pub lurched over Graham, taking the light machine gun from his grasp. With his free hand, the Scotsmen dug into his own holster, brandishing a silenced pistol. He placed the gun in his commander’s palm. “You have best chance to getting in there undetected…don’t give me that look. You’re already an ugly bastard; don’t need to scowl like that.”

He knew it was the right choice, in his mind at least. If they were to survive this, they would have to use the land itself towards their advantage. A bunker like that couldn’t be as well protected in the inside as the out. Once he was inside, he could get whatever he was looking for and leave as quickly as he came. That would require some luck and a lot of cover fire. The only wish that he had was that he had more people. _Should have brought the rest of my group._ His mind imagined them fuming at the thought of being left behind.

“Look over there.”  
“No one’s sight’s as good as yours, Marie.” 

She shrugged in agreement as she pointed what caught her attention. In the distance was a man in shagged rags, a long snake wrapped around his neck and a bear at his side. “Beastmaster is back. Didn’t you kill him?”

Graham eyed the man. Beastmaster looked thinner and raving mad. Bones showed underneath his layer of skin not bundled in cloth. His hair was longer, eyes redder, and body quivering. “No, he got away before I could kill him. Made friends with the local wild life, I see.”

 Graham grunted, feeling the weight of Pub’s pistol. Paired with his knife and his pistol, it’ll be fine. They would need all the fire power out here to even survive. “Are you going to handle that? I’ve seen what you can…”

“Turn into. It’s a gift.”  Crisium cracked her knuckles, stretching. “I’m the one animal he can’t control. Tried to kill him once before. Ragnar stopped me before I could, a bit of a shame.” She took a long pause. “If he’s here, Ragnar is.”

“And Wood guessed that River might be here as well. Damn crazy ass girl.” Haggis growled a string of words that made no sense to anyone besides his brother. “If you can’t, don’t fight ‘em. Especially if they’re together.” 

“Well. We can’t sit here and talk about it. You two, land cover fire. Keep moving. Crisium, you’re going to have to handle Beastmaster for me. Cover my sixth until then. The moment you get a chance, kill that man.”

“Oh. I’ll get a chance.”

The group gave a curt nod.

“Haggis. Pub. Which of you have the better arm?”

“Well…I dare say, Mr. Graham. That would be me,” Haggis grinned, receiving a frown from Pub. “He couldn’t throw a ball to save his life.”

“At least I have other balls that work perfectly fine,” Pub snapped.

“That’s not what the girlies be telling me.”

“Stop it you two! We have to get this done. Now!” Graham flicked his eyes back and forth. “Throw a grenade to disrupt the ring of defenses and start the assault. Wait until we get around the side. I’ll give the signal via radio, so keep your com channels on.”

“Aye sir!”

“Let’s get going, Crisium.”

A quick equipment check, as well as some distribution of ammo, handled itself quickly amongst the group. The men were armed with as much ammo as they could handle for their weapons. Crisium, however, kept just as light as possible. From her own account, the transformation left her unequipped in more than one way. They departed as prepared as they possibly could. The road was going to be tough. Graham just hoped that the risk equaled the reward.

Tearing through the brush, Graham and Crisium kept careful to make as little sound as possible. They kept an eye on the happenings below them. The white soldiers didn’t speak amongst themselves often, when they did, it was for the briefest of moments. Even from here, they looked to be emotionally frozen. The way they grasped their guns, the way they stood and walked, there was nothing there. Whomever these people worked for, they had forged monsters out of men.

They made it across the other side, undetected amongst the leaves. Graham dug into his pocket, bringing out the small brown box. “Crisium. Wanna…do your thing now?”

“I’ll be a few,” she said pulling off her jacket and wheeling behind a tree. “Start the assault, it won’t take long.”

Graham pressed the button on the side of the radio. “Haggis, Pub.”

“Aye, sir. Haggis speakin’.”

“Start the assault in 5…4…3…2…1…”

If his heart could race, he would have felt it throbbing up his chest. Instead, the solemn beats of his heart increased slightly. He missed his old friend adrenaline, pumping through his veins. It was no longer with him. He had to wait.

Graham saw it whistling through the air. _Haggis must have one hell of a good throwing arm_.  The grenade bounced, rolling at the feet of a man. He noticed it far too late, before the explosion consumed him, ripping him apart as well as several men around him.

Instantly, the fire fight started. The other side of the bunker’s ground was set ablaze with rapid fire.  A good five or so men were taken down in about a few good seconds before any of them realized it had started. Beastmaster’s snake kept itself coiled around its master, absorbing many of the bullets with its thick hide while hissing in pain. He was not going to be killed in the fire fight, Graham knew. That is why Crisium would have to handle him.

“Crisiu—“

He couldn’t get her name out, before he saw a large shadow soaring over his head. The beast landed in the depression, tearing its way easily through the ranks _. I still can’t get used to that._ He saw glimpses of the wolf before. The black and gold fur was thick like leather armor. The horns that he saw were long, curled things that protruded from her head and down her back. A blood curling howl resounded through the air, as she let out an inferno from her mouth. Nothing, not even movies, could prepare you for that sight.

The moment she got to the ground, she made a beeline to Beastmaster. The man looked pale, deathly so. He backed up, sending his bear to do the dirty work, only for it to be set aflame by the hellfire. She swatted the animal away as though it was made of paper, growling menacingly at her target. Those red eyes glared with blood thirst. Graham didn’t even have to wait to see what would happen next; he knew that he would be dead before he even got through halfway of the bunker.

Graham knew that he couldn’t watch the fight further to see it happen. He needed to make it inside. Caution thrown to the wind, he jumped from the cliff, sliding himself down the incline of the depression. His boots grinded against the rocks, legs and buttocks burning from the constant friction, made it an uncomfortable experience. He made it to the ground with rather few new wounds, losing only some of his deoxygenated blood. Tirelessly, he kept moving forward. He stayed out of the lines of sights, avoiding stray bullets with any cover he could find.

Haggis and Pub was holding their own. They had disorientated a superior force, but not only that, had cleaned out at least half. As Graham veered around a corner, he saw one of the Descendent’s head being split open by a sniper shot. Blood ooze from the back of his skull, pouring from his helmet like red wine from the neck of a bottle. Bits of pink stained the liquid, making it rather a grotesque sight even for a trained soldier.

 _Damn who trained those Scottish boys?_ He pushed the thought aside. Survival needed to be priority. _Survival is always first for you,_ the little voice in his head whispered.

Low to the ground, but moving quickly, he made it to the entrance. One of the soldier caught in the fire fight, and faced the direction of the twins, fired a three round burst into the trees. He was in the way. Graham grabbed the man by the throat, pulled his knife, and plunged in the smallest place between where his helmet and armor touched. The victim didn’t gurgle; the knife was in and out, before it could even be soaked in blood. He placed them down, shadowing into the bunker.

_Yeah. That’s what you’re good at. Killing. Stop pretending you’re any less of a weapon than that knife._

Graham jailed that thought as well. He was something more and so was this fight.


	11. Blood Pour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight between Graham and these new forces continue, all while his psyche continues to haunt him and begins to break.

11

* * *

 

_Blood Pour_

_“People like you had the chance to change the world. You couldn’t. Now, others will. This isn’t your playground anymore.”_

* * *

 

The moment that he entered the bunker, his body tingled with anxiousness. There was only darkness here in this windowless complex. Each light footstep sounded like claps of thunder in his ears. He tried to ignore the tension tingling up his spine. He was hunting. Not alone, there were other predators watching the predator move. Graham cleared his corner with his pistol. He wasn’t going to be prey to anything.

To a normal man, these hallways would have been nothing but pitch darkness to the eyes. Graham saw well enough. Long cracks lined the dirty grey walls, stained with spray paint and graffiti. Blood splatters and bones huddled together in corners, resonating hopelessness. The smells were bad, as though people came here to wait for death to take them. Graham knew that he would be adding to the death pool. Years of training told him that.

He pressed his back against a corner. Beams from flashlights danced around in the corridor ahead. Graham fought the urge to look. It was human habit to be curious. Curiosity usually got people killed. So he waited, watched the shadows as they turned before he struck.

Graham withdrew from his cover and fired twice, both hitting the men in the back of the necks. The first one died instantly, the bullet slipping through their only true weak spot and crashing into the spine. The second, however, missed the sweet spot. That soldier fell to the ground by the force, holding the back of his head. Cursing, Graham dashed forward, seizing the man by the crown of the head, and then stabbing him in his throat with the knife.  “Sloppy,” the Marine whispered to himself, lying the man down.

A closer look allowed him to see one of the bands of the Descendants. It was a simple black cloth on his bicep, marked with a strange arch symbol. He frowned. He couldn’t worry about that now. Outside, the battle still raged. Sound scarcely breached the stone walls. Waves that did were that of washed out gunfire, roars, and explosives. He couldn’t stay here for long.

_If only I brought the rest of the team,_ Graham thought again. _No. You can’t doubt your decision._ His core team wasn’t ready for a fire fight of this caliber. Someone would have died or worse. No, this was the best possible outcome. That was if he could do this quickly. Haggis, Pub, and Crisium were important to the Drifter’s team. Them lost would severely cripple further operation. _I have to act fast._  

Taking the corridor at a little faster pace, still careful, Graham wheeled around the corners. He made notes of the surroundings. The bunker was a labyrinth, ever growing in his mind. Some corridors led to others while some just looped around to the throat of the layout. What he did know was shadows were friends. Sneaking was still a fresh concept in his head. Built for outright fire fights was how he had been taught. But, this was fresh and he…enjoyed it.

He saw another man walking through the corridor. This one, a bald man with a stringy white and black beard, had no helm and was chattering something over the radio.  Ammo couldn’t be wasted, nor could this Intel. He waited, crouched. “What’d you mean we may have an infiltration? And why’s it taking so long to take out a small party,” the soldier barked. “Lieutenant Brink would be furious—not to mention those two nutcases.” 

Graham took a step forward, sheathing his weapons.  _Bump. Bump. Bump._ His prey’s heartbeat that had a sound and a taste touched his senses as he kept forward. His boots made no sound, his breath held, and fingers itched to clamp around his unsuspecting victim in a bloody urge. _That’s right. Just stay there._ The moment that he was behind the man, the man turned. He must have felt death creep on him. “Intrude—“

_Snap. Crunch._

Graham snapped his neck and smashed the man skull open with the sole of his boot. Like a melon being thrown into a wall, blood sprayed into the ground and meat leaked from the open wound. Broken teeth, spittle, and bile lined the man’s contorted face. The impact was hard, almost barbaric. One stomp left him hardly recognizable, just twisted flesh and broken bones. A few stomps later, there was _nothing_ left of the man’s face.

“Shit,” Graham whispered to himself. He hadn’t expected that. The man was dead before he had even hit the ground. The added brutality was rattling. Blood stained the black leather ridges of his boots. He couldn’t risk the man living. _He might have made some guttural sound through the radio_ , he reasoned. Instinct took over, the very closest thing to human bloodlust. Why his bare hands, though…why the urge? ‘ _Cause that’s what you wanted to do to these men. That’s what you want to do. This world’s changing you._

_No._ Removing the thought from his head, he pressed forward.  Killing was something he did. There was no use crying about it, even if it bothered him. _The center room,_ he focused on. The center room. 

Seconds stretched themselves thickly over his mission. The outside party couldn’t last much longer, he knew. Acting fast felt essential. He needed to—




At first, the sound was just echoes. He couldn’t quite make them out. Graham pulled his gun from its holster and looked through the gun’s sight in slow steps. The closer he got, the more that the voice cleared up. It was singing. _Female, young,_ Graham noted. She was younger than twenty, he knew. She sang a song without any lyrics. Somehow, that made her sound innocent. Innocence had died in this world, though. Graham cleared another corner. The singing was getting louder, closer. She was close. She was…

_Swooooosh._ Right behind him.

A trail of fire, a deep teal, licked against the ground blazing. It was almost alive, twitching and swaying like seaweed underwater. There were no crackling sounds. Embers screamed with high pitched voices as they died. That was no ordinary flame. That was a demon power. Graham turned to see the lady from which this flame came. The singing stopped. 

A young girl sat on the shoulders of a giant, her index finger still aflame. “Graham-cracker! It seems like we finally found you.” She giggled. “Or we could say that you found us. Either way, we’re here and we’re meeting, so hi!”

_This had to be her. “_ How do you know my name, River?”

“ _Spying_ ,” River said, swinging her legs. “For a _big bad Marine_ , I thought you would’ve noticed. How do you know _my_ name?”

“Reputation,” Graham said simply.

“Ain’t it a fun thing to be recognized?” River looked down, swinging her legs. “You and Raggy know each other, right? Not knowing, not like best friends knowing. But, the guy you met in the mall last Tuesday type of knowing. Raggy say something. It’s rude.”

Ragnar remained bitterly quiet. Apparently, Graham wasn’t the only one disgusted with this girl.

“Stop pouting. Drifter isn’t going anywhere without his tank drivers. So,” she pointed her flaming index finger at Graham, “We get to play with Mr. Zombieface for a while.”

A simple flick of her finger sent another fireball, bigger than the first, hurdling through the air. Graham pressed himself within a crevice of the wall to avoid the blast. The roaring screams howled down the corridor. The flames had no physical heat. Graham felt, however, the heat that it did possess. _It’s the burning souls,_ Graham thought. Not even within its grasp, burning swept through him like a plague. He would die if he touched it. 

“Mr. Graham! Don’t make me come over there.”

Graham heard the woman jump from Ragnar’s shoulder on to the ground. The tapping of heels against the stone got louder and louder as she approached. _I have to act._   It was good cover. Yet, when cover became a cage was when you had to move. Pinned down between the fire and the pan, he needed to act. She wasn’t a fighter or a soldier, but she was a demon. He would have to show her no mercy.

River turned into his line of sight, her childish like features lighting up with glee. Her eyes glowed in the dark, hand fully aflame. “Looks like you acted—“

“You talk too much.”

With a stiff right jab out of the space, Graham knocked the girl in the jaw, causing her to tumble back. She recovered quickly, but not quick enough to capitalize on the soldier slipping from out of the situation. He fired several rounds as he increased the space between the two of them. The suppressed bullets disappeared in the cloak of flames surrounding the pig-tailed River. They slapped away the bullets instead of burning them, causing a pool of metal to swim at her feet.

“Mr.Graham.” He heard her say, tinged with anger. “You really shouldn’t head that direction.”

Graham slid to a stop, realizing that Ragnar taken a different route to cut him off. The giant stood, battle axe raised. He was trapped, cursed that he had allowed himself to be so sloppy. He danced backwards, getting his feeling for the situation. “Bit of a pickle you got me in. Took a different route, did you?” Graham eyed a corridor linking through a backroom he had passed to get here. _Of course he’ll use that._

“It’s a shame that you’re so predictable.” Ragnar swung his axe the only way that he could in this corridor, in a broad downstroke. Graham jumped back to avoid the swing, only for the heel of his boot to nearly touch a sea-colored flame. “I must say, I expected more from Drifter’s new pet.”

“My my. You aren’t fun, Mr. Graham,” River growled, wiping the blood from her mouth. “I thought you would last longer.” She snapped her jaw back into place, grinning, red staining her teeth. Angry flames curtained her arms. “Look at you. You’re a hamster going round and round a wheel with no real objective in mind. Just do what you are told,” she whipped a flame to the right wall, “A puppet in the grand scheme of things.” She did the same to the left wall beside Graham, leaving him no movement room. “Just dancing a tune that you don’t even know the notes to...”

“This world isn’t for you,” River added. A flame bird conjured itself in her palms, screeching loudly. “People like you, the good people, had your chance. Look what happened. The world still died. Only the wicked survives here. This is our playground now.”

There are points in a person’s life where they knew death caught them. He had cheated it once. The grim reaper always found its way back. _Haha. You’re afraid, even after what you did to that man. Survive, you told yourself. You don’t want to die, as much as you want to believe you’re willing to._ Graham touched a grenade on his side. This may be his time, but hell if he was going to let these two walk away from this. “You won’t get away with this—“

“Fair fight? I think not.”

Those were the only words that Graham heard as the wall beside Ragnar crumbled. Broken bones of the concrete scattered against the ground, bouncing off and colliding into one another. Dust hung in the air, surrounding the figure that uttered the words. With a few coughs, the small man stepped from the dust, staring at the three parties with steel-colored eyes.

He was a small man, on the lower ends of five feet. His body looked as though it had been strung together tightly with layers of wiry muscle and pale skin. Shaggy and curly brown hair fell from his scalp scruffily, reaching to his tight neck.  A beard of the same features dangled from his small chin. The most noticeable feature was the man’s battle testaments. Around the bridge of his nose, down the side of his face, on his forehead, there wasn’t part of his face not covered in thick or thin scars. Bruises, old and new, lined his arms. Underneath the stature and the boyish grin was something dangerous.

Clothed only in some patch-worked pants, the young man took steps forward.  His voice was low, muttering in what sounded to be Russian. Ragnar turned around, staring down at the man not even half his size. “Who are you—“

The punch was swift, punching clean through the giant’s armor, and against his rib. Ragnar doubled over, coughing up blood.

Like any good man, Graham took the opportunity to climb over the giant and avoid being singed alive—or whatever that flame did.

The Russian man cocked his head in the direction of the opening he made. Get away was the main plan. Ragnar and River were angry and annoyed now. Sticking around to see what happened next was unhealthy and counterproductive. 

“You have a reason for helping me,” Graham asked, trying not to sound ungraciously frustrated.

“Does one need a reason to help someone?”

Graham took the statement with grace. “You have a name?”

“It appears that you are in luck. Indeed I possess one.” He gave a grin, showing a somewhat broken row of teeth. “Grigori Zachrov, comrade.”

“What is a Russian doing in America?”

“Sleeping mostly. Motherland, “Grigori searched for the English word in his head, “Motherland is cold.”

Somehow that seemed like an understatement, if America was any testament. Graham could only assume that Russia had taken a brunt of some nuclear winter and this man was a refugee.  But there were other questions. How did he get here? What was his real purpose? Was he leading him to a trap? Already, his body was preparing for the worst options. _Trust is a low thing for you. T_ he voice in the back of his head reminded him. _Trust is a concept._ He reloaded his pistol, keeping himself aware.

Grigori noticed with an empty, if not lazy, expression. “Fair assumption, friend.” He eyed the metal, a smirk underneath the bush he called a beard. “What would I gain from killing you except more sin I cannot hold? So have no fear. I saved you because it was right, not of some ulterior motive.”

“How did you know—“

“That you needed help, not them? Good people know that they have sinned, and know it is wrong. Evil just takes more bites from fruits that does not belong to them.”

“But—“

            “I will hear no more of this. Talking about it and worrying about my intentions, which are none, is not going to make you run faster from people who are currently attempting to murder you.”

The point slithered down his throat as stiff pill would.  Silently, Graham followed him through the winding corridors. Sounds of the angered beasts howled behind them. They were coming up fast now. The hermit of a man knew the bunker like the back of his hand, taking him down several different corridors. The final destination was a small room to the side. A large bald man as well as a thin mutated creature sat in the middle of the relatively empty room.

As soon as Graham stepped a foot in the door, the bald man raised his AK-47 and spouted Russian. The armed fellow stood to his full height, towering over both men. He roared more words, fuming with spittle spewing on his Russian army fatigues.  Grigori returned in his native tongue, nothing more than a sentence or two. Whatever he said worked. The gun lowered, and so did the man’s facial expression as though he had been kicked in the gullet. “Little brother Ivan says hello.” Grigori said. “Boris. Come say hello to our American friend as well.”

Boris crawled toward Graham using his hands and his feet. The mutant was some sort of hyena, fish, and bird hybrid. Long white hair trailed down his head and back. His body was covered with fur mostly except his belly and shoulder, which was scaled and feathered respectively.  He had no mouth, just a slit where it should be and his nose was flat.  Dark round eyes stared up, observing intelligently for a second before returning to Ivan’s side. A low almost musical sound uttered from the opening of his face.

“That one,” Grigori pointed at Ivan, “chose not to learn English. Boris always thought in music and colors, speech were never of any use for him. It is disheartening that you cannot meet my brothers in a more desirable situation. What did you come here for, my friend?”

“A clue was all I was told.”

“Hm. Boris, remember what you brought me—“Boris left the conversation before Grigori had even finished. “Blunt type of man, he is.”

Boris went into a deep part of the room, coming back with a black canister. The first thing that Graham had notice was the symbol; the arch that he had saw on the soldier’s arm. “Can I have that?” he asked hurriedly to the mutant. Grigori repeated the request.

Very carefully, Boris placed it down. 

“Thank you.”

Grigori relayed the thanks, and received a joyful high pitched laugh as a response. “He appreciates the thought. I suggest that you leave now. In fact, we all shall leave. They ruined my favorite sleeping spot. Are all of your countrymen so blatantly rude?”

“We don’t try to be,” Graham mused. “Lead the way.”

“Oh no sweetie, no you won’t.”

Curtained in flames, River stepped around the corner into the room. Her hair was down, wreathed around her neck and down her face. Ragnar followed her, a safe distance away. “We haven’t played enough, have we, Graham-cracker?” The pre-game had stopped, Graham knew, the moment she shot the fire ball from her palm.  She had hurdled nothing less than a small sun at them. It consumed the room much slower, with the sound of a million dead souls shrieking. He heard the voices this time, begging in pain.

Graham felt outmatched, a feeling he never felt before. His hands went numb. His yes stared at the flames, calling out to him. Fear gripped him. _I can’t do anything about that_. Guns didn’t matter. His training didn’t matter. Just fear mattered. _This…I can’t…_

“Stand out the way, comrade!”

Grigori quickly took the lead, stepping in front of the flame. His pale skin began to glow red as he embraced it. It was only for a second, since the next motion was him slamming his fist into the ground. A fissure stretched itself through the floor, traveling up the walls, and through the ceiling. The room split itself in half, crumbling messily through the side. River’s bath of fire stopped as it leaked into the air. Boris rushed to his brother’s side as the small man’s legs gave way under him, tossing him on his back.

“Let’s get out of here!” Graham roared, grabbing the canister.

The two remaining members of the party nodded understandably.  Graham charged towards the only route out of the bunker as the stone crashed in pain. _You lucked out again in a game you can’t win. You’re still a human. And humans can’t live here._ He lived, but inside he was dying.

   
_

Graham had never been so angry before.

Pub, Haggis, and Crisium retreated back to the vehicles with low to mild injuries. Grigori regained consciousness, but was still leaning on Ivan for support. Everyone kept quiet within the desolate Boneyard, tending wounds and regaining their breaths.  Graham recovered in a different way. He couldn’t get that feeling out of his head. He never met an enemy that he couldn’t handle, an evil he couldn’t face. He gritted his teeth.

“It could’ve been a lot worse,” Pub reassured.

“Especially if Ragnar was actually fighting serious.”

“Dickweeds,” Crisium snapped. She cleaned the remaining bits of Beastmaster out of her hair. Around her neck was his hand, fastened to a necklace.  “You aren’t helping any.”

“Calm yer tits, warrior princess,” the brothers retorted.

Graham ignored them, kneeling down to the recuperating Grigori. He had no real expression, especially for a man who could have died possibly in whatever his little act did.  “See, the right thing. That is what you are known for.” He gave a bit of a weak cough, but overall he seemed better. “You have gotten what you have come here for. I hope it is of some use.”

“What’d ya get exactly, mate?”

Crisium grabbed the canister from the truck and examined it. It was nothing real special, and more than a little rusted. Yet the symbol on the side of it was recognizable. “God—this is Z-12.” She said in shock.

“So the Ancestors made or used the Z-12 and we can assumingly the P-X35…” The words were almost sticky in Graham’s mouth. Humans were dark creatures, he knew. Yet, why would people create weapons like this, here? Whose order was it to make them? “Why?”

“That’s the million dollar question—ooww!”

“Stop being a little pansy, will ya?” Haggis urged his brother as he tightened the bandage. “You shouldn’t have gotten shot.”   
“You did too, ya muppet.”

“Your wound’s a lot worse.”

“And I shall keep the scar proudly!”

“Stop it you two! Serious business here!”  Crisium’s face flared up with anger. “If the Ancestors are behind whatever happened, we have to figure out why and who’s behind them. I doubt they are done with the world yet.”

It was true. Whoever started this, they had to figure it out. But, how? Where would they start? This leader of the Ancestors could be anywhere. “Since we know about the Ancestor’s involvement now,” Graham said, breaking his silence, “Maybe Drifter can figure out where they are.”

“The manuscript!” Everyone looked at Crisium as though she was mad. She went on to explain: “That’s what he was after going to Rootgrove. He was looking for the trade manuscript. Conjurer worked for the government before the war, a scientist I think. Drifter must have caught wind of something—“

“Then shit! He can’t stay for long in Rootgrove. If Drifter connected the dots between the Ancestors and Conjurer, Conjurer’s on the defensive. He knows that he can’t handle Drifter in a fight, a fair one, especially with Heron and Wood. He might try something desperate.” Haggis took a deep breath. “Tell your Russian friends sorry, but we have to leave.”

“I speak English, brother,” Grigori interrupted, lazily. “But go. Do not worry about me. We have made it through worse. Find out who destroyed home. Your home, my home, everyone’s home.”

Graham nodded. “Thank you.”

“No need. God look over your travels.”

“How can you still believe after all of this?” 

“Is that not the meaning of faith?”

Those words stayed with Graham long after they had left towards the town again. He hardly had faith in himself anymore. This world was kicking his ass, and handing it back to him on a silver platter. But, he needed to fight; if not for himself, for everyone who lost their lives to this psychopath of an organization. _I’m willing to lose everything. I’m willing to kill everyone to get to the end of these lies._ His subconscious voice went silent this time, appreciating the thought.

_

“River…?” The voice said sweetly.

Ragnar watched the fight patiently; he was doing the same for the aftermath.

“River,” the voice repeated. “Would you care to explain the meaning of that atrocity?”

River kept her mouth closed. Her small lips were tight together, eyes poised into the darkness of the room. She crossed her legs, tapping her toes on the wood of the stool. “Please don’t chastise me,” she said with a smirk. “You couldn’t have expected that either. You would’ve been just as _surprised_ as I was that they got away. Yet, I’m the one that’s sloppy. Oh that’s rich. You entrusted the script to Conjurer, knowing all too well that his rivalry with the Drifter supersedes his actual logic. Needless to say, his actual logic is fleeting anyway. So, I guess we all just rained on the parade. Too bad, I should have brought rain coats.”

“Don’t patronize me, girl!” The man snapped.

“I’m just a girl?” River laughed. “That may be true. Forgive me, but I’m speaking to a boy who thinks he’s a man. First big job by the big man and you mess it all up. Brink, what will they think of you? And you’re supposed to be a Son of the Ancestors. All I see is a boy that fell off the monkey bars.”

Ragnar couldn’t see the man’s face, but he saw him reach for River’s jaw and hold it tightly. “You think this is _funny_!” Lieutenant Brink snapped. “You think that this is all a big game and you are the only player here.  On top of that, you think you’re winning. No. No. No. You’re a jigsaw piece, just a corner. So easy, that a _child_ can figure out where you go! Either you do your job, or I break you. Understood?”

She gave no response. Brink snapped his fingers away from her jaw. “When I run out of fun things to do,” she smiled, despite the red marks on her cheek from the man, “I’m going to have to find another swing to play on. I hope it’s not in your playground sweetie.” She jumped off the stool, swiftly heading in Ragnar’s direction, smiling.

“It’s not fun being with someone who knows how to play your game,” Ragnar said, mocking the girl.

“Too bad he’s playing it wrong.”


End file.
